Three days later, on Friday afternoon, the mortal remains of Marguerite Nouvellini, followed only by the officiating clergyman, the Rev. Mr. Martin; Roma, little Catherine, the lawyer and the physician, were borne to their last resting place at Oak Hill Cemetery, where, in the little Gothic chapel, the religious services were held, and Roma took the orphan home to her own heart. As soon as the party returned to the house Roma requested her two old friends, Lawyer Merritt and Dr. Mix, to enter with her, as she wished to consult them. They accompanied her to the parlor of her flat, where she sat down, with little Catherine on her lap, and begged them to be seated. Then she said: “I wish to adopt this child as my own, unless some one who has a better right should claim her.” “Oh, no!” here broke in little Catherine, clinging closely to her protectress. “No! no! no! No one but you! you! you!” Roma pressed the child to her bosom and continued: “At least, I shall keep her for the present, and until some one with a better right shall claim her.” “No! no! no!” again protested the child. “No one but you shall have me!” Again Roma soothed her, and then resumed: “What I wished to consult you about is this: There is a large, packed Saratoga trunk upstairs that belonged to this child’s mother. Should I go through that trunk to obtain from it any papers that may be there—information concerning the child’s relatives—or should I put a seal upon the trunk and leave it intact until it is claimed?” “I should say,” said the lawyer, “that you had better search first, and seal it afterward, if necessary. If the little one had any inheritance the Orphans’ Court might appoint you her guardian and trustee; but as she seems to have nothing—but the trunk—I do not think it would be worth while to go through the formality. Since you are determined to adopt the little one, just act by her and her small effects as if she were your own.” “I agree with you,” said the doctor. “Oh, yes! I give myself to you! you! you! and to no one else!” passionately exclaimed little Catherine, clinging to her protectress. “Very well, then, darling; I will keep you. Do not be afraid,” said Roma. Then turning to the lawyer, she added: “I ought to tell you, perhaps, that the child has, or had, a great-grandmother, a Madam Arbuthnot, of Arbuthnot, in the Highlands of Scotland—a woman of rank, who discarded this child’s grandmother more than thirty years ago, since when there seems to have been no communication at all. The old lady, if living, must be nearly eighty, I should think. Under the circumstances, ought I to write to her?” “Yes,” answered the two gentlemen simultaneously. Then the doctor arose and took leave. But the lawyer lingered. “I have something to tell you,” he said. “I could not tell before. It is good news, my dear Roma. William Harcourt is found.” CHAPTER II A MAN OF WOE