“Have you any warm shawls suitable for a little girl?” he inquired. He selected one, and paid for it. “Show me some dress-patterns,” he continued. Two different ones were chosen. Martin paid for them. “Can you direct me,” he inquired, “to any good dressmaker’s?” The clerk had at first been inclined to laugh at the old man, whose attire, though warmer, was no better looking than Floy’s; but the promptness with which he paid for his purchases, and the glimpse which had in this way been obtained of a well-filled pocket-book, inspired him with a feeling of respect, and he readily complied with his request. “Now,” said Martin cheerfully to Floy, “we will have you a little better dressed, so that you need not fear the cold.” “I am sure,” said Floy, gratefully, “that I am much obliged, and I don’t know how I can repay you.” “You have already,” said the old man with feeling. “I don’t know how I should have got along without you when I was sick.” “Floy,” said Martin, thoughtfully, as they came out from the dressmaker’s, “although you have been with me for some time, I have never thought to ask your name,—I mean your other name besides Floy.” “My name is not Floy,” said the child. “They only call me so. My real name is Florence,—Florence Eastman.” “Florence Eastman!” said the old man, starting back in uncontrollable agitation. “Who was your mother? Tell me quick!” “Her name,” said the child, somewhat surprised, “was Florence Kendrick.” “Who was her father?” “Martin Kendrick.” “And where is he? Did you ever see him?” “No,” said Floy, shaking her head. “He was angry with mother for marrying as she did, and would never see any of us.” “And your mother?” said Martin, striving to be calm. “Is she dead?” “Yes,” said Floy, sorrowfully. “First, my father died, and we were left very poor. Then mother was obliged to work very hard, sewing; and finally she took a fever, and died, leaving me alone in the world. For a week, I wandered about without a home; but at last you took me in. I don’t know what would have become of me if you had not,” said she, gratefully. “Floy,” said Martin, looking at her steadfastly, “do you know my name?” “No,” said Floy. “I have often wondered what it was, but never liked to ask you.” “Then,” said he, in an agitated tone, “you shall know now. I am Martin Kendrick, your GRANDFATHER!” Floy was filled with amazement, but, after a moment, threw herself into his arms. “Will you forgive mother?” she asked. “I will! I have! But, alas! she has much more to forgive me. Would that she were still alive!”