“I am not satisfied; we must investigate farther than we have. Your wife talked of a Mrs. Storms who was sponsor for her baby. Did you ever know it was baptized? Did she write you to that effect?” “Never. She only said that baby Madeline was dead,” Mr. Grey replied, and after a moment’s hesitation Magdalen continued, “Tell me, please, if you ever wished to give Alice another name than the one she bears, and did your wife oppose it?” Mr. Grey’s face was scarlet, but he answered promptly,— “I _did_ propose calling Alice after a dear friend of mine whose second name was Magdalen.” “Then Mrs. Grey was right so far,” Magdalen rejoined, “and may have been correct in her other statements to me, also. She told me one was Madeline, and that to please you she called the other “Magdalen,” after the friend for whom you wished Alice named, and that a Mr. and Mrs. Storms were sponsors. Do you know any such people?” Mr. Grey did not, and Magdalen continued: “We must find them. Is it of any use to inquire in the vicinity where Mrs. Grey once lived?” “None whatever. Every house has been pulled down, and every family is gone,” was the unpromising answer, but Magdalen was not disheartened. “The christening must have been in church. Can you tell which one it was likely to be?” Mr. Grey thought it was St. Luke’s, as Mrs. Clayton was an attendant there. They might—— He did not finish the sentence, for Magdalen started quickly, exclaiming: “There must be a Parish Register, and there we shall find it recorded, and possibly trace Mrs. Storms. Let us go at once to the Rectory, if there is one.” Her bonnet and shawl were on in a trice, a carriage was called, and the three were soon on their way to the house of the Rev. Henry Fowler, Rector of St. Luke’s. He was a young man, who had only been there for a year or two, but Magdalen’s beauty and excitement enlisted his sympathy at once, and he went with them to the church and took from a dusty shelf an old worn-looking volume, wherein he said was recorded the births, deaths, and baptisms of twenty and twenty-five years ago. It was Magdalen who took the book in her own hands, and sitting down upon the chancel steps with her bonnet falling back from her flushed face and her white lips compressed together, turned the pages eagerly, while the three men stood looking at her. Suddenly she gave a cry, and the three came near her. “Look,” she said, “it’s here. There was a child baptized,” and she pointed to the record of the baptism of “Magdalen Laura,” daughter of Arthur and Laura Grey. Sponsors, “Mr. and Mrs. James Storms, Cynthiana, Kentucky.” Then suddenly a cloud passed over her face as she said sadly, “But there is only _one_. Where is _Madeline_?” “Turn to the deaths,” Guy said, and with trembling fingers Magdalen did as he bade her, but found no trace of Madeline.