“It must be a pleasure to you to know who your father really is,” said Sibyl, sweetly. Justin regarded her steadily, without actually seeing her. His faculties were turned inward. “Yes, that is true; I am glad to know who my father is. I have wondered about it many times. But I never dreamed it could be Mr. Davison. It doesn’t seem possible now.” Yet in his hands he held the unimpeachable record. Sanders rose, shuffling and awkward. “I’ll turn the mem’randum over to you; I reckon it belongs by rights more to you than to Davison, and I don’t keer even to speak to him; he’s never done right by me.” Justin aroused as Sanders moved toward the door. “Sanders,” he said, “I’m obliged to you for this. I recognize this as my mother’s handwriting. You ought to have given it to me long ago, but I’m glad to get it now. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you did for her. I shall never forget it.” “Oh, ’twasn’t nothin’ at all,” Sanders declared, glad to escape the denunciation he had feared. “And I want you to tell me more about my mother,” Justin urged; “what she said when she came to you, and how she looked, and everything.” Sanders sat down again, chewing the quid of reflection, and gave the details Justin demanded, for they had held well in his tenacious memory. Justin, listening with breathless interest, asked many questions, while Sibyl sat by in silent attention and studied his strong beardless face. He thanked Sanders again, when the story was ended. Sanders appeared anxious to depart, now that he had performed his mission, and Sibyl was glad to have him go. Justin remained in the room. He was thinking of Lucy and desired to see her. “When I got on the track of that story and understood what it meant, I felt it to be my duty to bring you and Mr. Sanders together and let you hear it from his own lips,” said Sibyl, regarding Justin attentively. “And I told him to be sure to bring that diary, for I knew you would want to see it and would prize it highly.” It was in Justin’s pocket, but he took it out again, still handling it reverently. “I thank you for that, Mrs. Dudley,” he said with deep sincerity. “The whole thing is so new, so unexpected, that I am not yet able to adjust myself to it; but it was a kindness on your part, and this book I shall hold beyond price.” He studied again the yellowed writing. “It is beyond price, for my mother wrote it!” He put the book away and looked at Sibyl.