"See here, child," she said one day when Donelle was brooding and sad, "You’ve been very sick and you’re weak yet, but while you were at the worst you remembered, and it will all come back again soon." The girl brightened at once. "What did I remember, Mamsey?" she asked. Jo, weaving a new design, puckered her brow. "Oh, you told of travels with your father," then with inspiration, "they must have been in far-off places, for you spoke about high-tops white with snow and the sun making them pink. They must have been handsome." Donelle’s eyes widened and grew strained. "Yes," she said dreamily; "they must have been handsome. But my father, Mamsey, what about my father?" "Well, child, he died." Jo made the plunge and looked for the results. "Yes, I think I knew he was dead. Did you know my father, Mamsey?" Again Jo plunged. "Yes, child, long ago. He must have been bringing you to me when something happened. Then you were ill and the Sisters took you——" "But why did they not bring me to you?" Donelle was clinging to every word. "I think they did not know. You forgot what had happened. Your father was dead——" "Yes, I see. But always I was trying to get away. Many times I did get out of the gates, but always they found me until the time when I found you. Things happen very queer sometimes." Then, quickly changing the subject; "Mamsey, did you know my mother, too?" "Yes, child." And now poor, honest, simple Jo Morey bent her head over the loom. "Was she a good—mother?" For the life of her Jo could not answer. The wide sunny eyes of the girl were upon her, the awful keenness of an awakening mind was searching her face and what lay behind her troubled eyes. The moment of silence made the next harder; conclusions had been reached by the girl. She came toward Jo, stood before her, and laid her hands upon her shoulders, "Mamsey," she faltered; "we will not talk about my mother if it hurts you." The quick gratitude and sympathy almost frightened Jo. And they did not for many a year after that speak of Donelle’s mother. "But, child," Jo pleaded, "just do not push yourself, it will all come back to you some day. You must trust me as your father did. And another thing, Donelle, you are to live with me now, and—and it was your father’s wish, it is best that you take my name. And you must not let on about—about—the Home at St. Michael’s." Donelle shivered. "I will not!" she said. "Do they know where I am?" "No. But when you are able to be left, I am going to tell them!" This came firmly. "They will be glad enough to forget you and leave the rest to me. They have great powers of forgetting and remembering, when it pays. But they are through with you, child, forever." "Oh! Mamsey, thank God!"