"It is her name, Arnold. It was the child's grandmother's name."
"A strange coincidence," he said. "Pray go on."
"'She will say: Cousin Clara, I am Iris Deseret. Then you will be kind to her, as you would to me, if I were to come home again.' I cannot read any more, my dear, even to you."
"Did this American give you any other proof of what he asserts?"
"He gave me a portrait of Claude, taken years ago, when he was a boy of sixteen, and showed me the certificate of marriage, and the child's certificate of baptism, and letters from his wife. I suppose nothing more can be wanted."
"I dare say it is all right, Clara. But why was not the child brought over before?"
"Because—this is the really romantic part of the story—when her father died, leaving the child, she was adopted by these charitable Americans, and no one ever thought of examining the papers, which were lying in a desk, until the other day."
"You have not seen the young lady."
"No; he is to bring her to-morrow."
"And what sort of a man is this American? Is he a gentleman?"