It was Magdalen who did most of the talking,—Magdalen who, without taking the chair offered her, broke out impetuously, “Are you Mrs. James Storms, and did you years ago,—say nineteen or twenty—know a Mrs. Clayton, in Cincinnati, and her daughter, Mrs. Grey,—Laura they called her?” The woman, who seemed to be naturally a lady, cast a wondering glance at Magdalen, and replied: “I am Mrs. Storms, and I knew Laura Clayton, or rather Mrs. Grey. Are you her daughter? You look like her as I remember her.” Magdalen did not answer this question, but went on vehemently: “Were you much with Mrs. Grey, and can you tell me anything about her starting for her home in New York, and if she had a baby then, and how old it was, and what dress did it wear? Try to remember, please, and tell me if you can.” Mrs. Storms was wholly bewildered with all these interrogatories of a past she had not recalled in years, and looked inquiringly at Mr. Grey, who was standing by Magdalen, and who said with a smile: “Not quite so fast. You confuse the woman with your rapid questions. Ask her one at a time; or perhaps it will be better for me to explain a little first.” Then as briefly as possible he repeated what he thought necessary for Mrs. Storms to know of the business which had brought them there, and asked if she could help them any. For a moment Mrs. Storms was too much surprised to speak, and stood staring, first at Magdalen and then at Mr. Grey, in a dazed, helpless kind of way. “Lost her baby,—the little child I stood for! Didn’t have it when she got home, nor her baggage either! it takes my breath away! Of course she was crazy. I can see it now, though I did not suspect it then. I only thought her queer at times.” “Yes, but tell us; begin at the beginning,” Magdalen exclaimed, too impatient to wait any longer. And thus entreated, Mrs. Storms began: “I knew Mrs. Clayton in New Orleans, before she moved to Cincinnati, or I was married and came here. I had seen Laura when a little girl, but did not know much of her until she came home after her marriage. Then I saw her every time I was at her mother’s, which was quite often, considering the distance between here and Cincinnati, and the tedious way we had then of getting there by stage. My husband, who is dead now, and myself were sponsors for her baby, whom she called Magdalen.” “Was there _one_ or _two_ children? Tell me that first, please,” Magdalen said, and when Mrs. Storms replied, “She had _two_, but one died before it was christened,” she gave a sudden scream, and staggered a step towards Mr. Grey, who, almost as white and weak as herself, laid his hand with a convulsive grasp upon her shoulder and said, “Two children! twins! and I never knew it!” “Never knew it!” Mrs. Storms repeated. “I wrote it to you myself the day after they were born. I happened to be there, and Laura asked me to write and tell you, and I did, and directed my letter to Rome.”