"I hope you will pardon me," he continued as he observed her confusion. "I am aware that I appear presumptuous; but you are the counterpart of a sister whom I lost years ago, and whose daughter I have been vainly seeking during the last five years." Jennie's heart bounded into her throat at this, and her discretion instantly vanished in her eagerness to verify a startling suspicion that had popped into her head while he was speaking. "Oh, sir," she began, with a nervous catch in her breath. "I am called Jennie Wild, but that isn't really my name--I don't know what it is. My father and mother were both killed in a railroad accident when I was a baby, and a kind lady adopted me and-- perhaps--oh, do you think---" but her voice failed her utterly at this point, for her heart was panting painfully from mingled hope and fear. The stranger smiled genially down upon her, but his own voice was far from steady, as he said: "Suppose, Miss Wild, we go and sit down over yonder, where we will be by ourselves"--indicating a remote corner of the room--"and, perhaps, we can find out a little more about this double-puzzle; at least, we can ascertain whether your facts and mine will fit together." He led the way and placed a chair for her in a position to shield her from observation as they talked, and then, sitting down beside her, asked her to please tell him as much of her history as she was willing he should know. But, as we are aware, that was very little, indeed, and took only a few minutes to relate. "Well, my child," the man observed, when; she concluded, "there is not much in what you have told me that throws any light upon what I am anxious to learn; your face and form alone seem to indicate kinship, and that may be but a singular coincidence. All the same, you shall hear my story.