"Yes--Dad--I know that," and the youth's voice faltered. "But I want--I just want to know who I am. I don't intend to leave you. I guess you know that. I haven't any other place to go. But I would like to know who I am. Maybe--maybe," and Dave's voice was husky, "I might have a--a sister somewhere in this world. Oh, what I'd give if I had!" and unshed tears shone in his eyes. "Well, Dave, I never thought of it in just that way," said the ranchman. "Yes, what you say may be true. I'll send for this life belt of bottle corks, and let you look at it. Mind, I don't believe it will be of any use as a clew, but I'll send for it." And so the matter had ended for the time being. There had been so much to do, what with the fire and the trouble over the water rights, that there had been a delay in sending for the old relic of the flood. But finally Mr. Carson had written for it, together with some of his other goods in storage in Denver, and they had arrived that day. He had promised Dave to unpack them, and show him the belt, and it was this matter that the young cowboy wished to see about before going over to the stone valley with Mr. Bellmore. "Well, Dave, there it is," said Mr. Carson, as he opened a trunk, and took out several articles. "Here's the little dress and the other things you wore when I hauled you from the water." He held up a white garment, clean, but yellow with age, and smelling faintly of some perfume. "It doesn't look as though it had been through a flood," said Dave. "No, I had it washed and ironed, and then a lady I knew packed it away in rose leaves for me. She said that's how she kept the baby clothes of her own little ones. Those are the shoes you wore," the ranchman went on, as something fell to the floor, when Dave unrolled the dress. The shoes, too, had once been white, but were soiled now, not having responded to the cleansing process as had the dress. They were stuffed out with wads of paper. "It would be some job to get in them now," Dave remarked with a smile as he glanced down at his booted and spurred feet. "Some job!" "Yes," assented Mr. Carson. "And here's your petticoat, Dave. I reckon that's what you call it," and he held up some other garments. "I saved 'em all," he said, "thinking they might be a clew, but they never turned out so." "But where is the cork belt?" Dave asked. He was impatient to see that. He realized that baby dresses must be more or less alike, with seldom a distinguishing mark. But the cork belt impressed him with the possibility of being different. "Here it is," said Mr. Carson. From amid the contents of the trunk he pulled out a queer object