“I was, for a time. I was first called to the child not three days after it had been given to them.” “How could you tell that it was the same child? Babes of that age look much alike.” “Do you suppose that a man in my profession could be so lacking in observation as not to recognize a babe at whose birth he had officiated, and in which so much of unusual interest seemed to center?” queried Doctor Turner, with a slight curl of his lips. “I knew her the moment I saw her; but they do not know, to this day, that I had even a suspicion that she was not their own flesh and blood.” “You never told them?” said Mrs. Marston, quickly. “Madame,” returned the gentleman, with dignity, “need I remind you again that an honorable physician never betrays the confidence of his patients. You confided in me to a certain extent, and I knew that you wished to drop entirely out of existence, as far as your relation with the child and its adopted parents were concerned. I knew also that they wished its adoption to remain a secret—consequently my lips were sealed.” The lady’s eyes drooped and all the haughtiness vanished at these words. “Thank you, Doctor Turner, for your consideration for me, and I am glad, too, that one so conscientious has been intrusted with the care of the child,” she said, earnestly. “Is—she still living?” “Yes, and as beautiful a young lady as any one would wish to see.” Mrs. Marston’s face clouded, and a sigh escaped her red lips. Her companion thought it one of regret and yearning. “Has she been well reared? Has she had advantages?” “The very best that money could procure or fondest affection could suggest. Mr. August—ah—Damon——” the doctor caught himself just in season, for the gentleman’s true name had almost escaped him, “has become a rich man, and no parents could have done more for the welfare of their own child than they have done for yours.” “Are there other children?” “No; that is, they have none of their own, though I believe they have been giving a poor boy of great promise a home and an education during the last eight or ten years.” “Does she—the daughter—know that she is an adopted child?” Mrs. Marston inquired. “I cannot say positively as to that,” Doctor Turner replied. “She did not know it a few years ago, and I imagine she has never been told. I hope not, at all events; it would be better for her never to know it,” he concluded, with significant emphasis. “Yes,” returned his companion, “I suppose it would. But you have not yet told me the name.” “And you have not told me your motive in wishing to learn it.” “I do not know that I have any special motive, other than a curiosity and a natural desire to know how my child is living, and how life has dealt with her,” the lady answered, musingly. “I was traveling this summer and thought I would take Boston in on my route, ascertain, if I could, the residence of the people to whom my babe had been given, and perhaps obtain a glimpse of her.”