The likeness was a large miniature, painted on ivory, with a frame of beaten gold. Surrounded by masses of dark hair was a delicately cut face. In the upper part of it there was no trace of Freckles, but the lips curving in a smile were his very own. The Angel gazed at it steadily. Then with a quivering breath she laid the portrait aside and reached both hands to Lord O'More. “That will save Freckles' life and insure his happiness,” she said positively. “Thank you, oh thank you for coming!” She opened the bundle of yellow and brown linen and gave only a glance at the texture and work. Then she gathered the little clothes and the picture to her heart and led the way to the cab. Ushering Lord and Lady O'More into the reception room, she said to McLean, “Please go call up my father and ask him to come on the first train.” She closed the door after him. “These are Freckles' people,” she said to the Bird Woman. “You can find out about each other; I'm going to him.” CHAPTER XIX Wherein Freckles Finds His Birthright and the Angel Loses Her Heart The nurse left the room quietly, as the Angel entered, carrying the bundle and picture. When they were alone, she turned to Freckles and saw that the crisis was indeed at hand. That she had good word to give him was his salvation, for despite the heavy plaster jacket that held his body immovable, his head was lifted from the pillow. Both arms reached for her. His lips and cheeks flamed, while his eyes flashed with excitement. “Angel,” he panted. “Oh Angel! Did you find them? Are they white? Are the little stitches there? OH ANGEL! DID ME MOTHER LOVE ME?” The words seemed to leap from his burning lips. The Angel dropped the bundle on the bed and laid the picture face down across his knees. She gently pushed his head to the pillow and caught his arms in a firm grasp. “Yes, dear heart,” she said with fullest assurance. “No little clothes were ever whiter. I never in all my life saw such dainty, fine, little stitches; and as for loving you, no boy's mother ever loved him more!” A nervous trembling seized Freckles. “Sure? Are you sure?” he urged with clicking teeth. “I know,” said the Angel firmly. “And Freckles, while you rest and be glad, I want to tell you a story. When you feel stronger we will look at the clothes together. They are here. They are all right. But while I was at the Home getting them, I heard of some people that were hunting a lost boy. I went to see them, and what they told me was all so exactly like what might have happened to you that I must tell you. Then you'll understand that things could be very different from what you always have tortured yourself with thinking. Are you strong enough to listen? May I tell you?” “Maybe 'twasn't me mother! Maybe someone else made those little stitches!” “Now, goosie, don't you begin that,” said the Angel, “because I know that it was!” “Know!” cried Freckles, his head springing from the pillow. “Know! How can you know?”