"Mr. Chaytor's name is Thorold," returned Waveney, simply, "and his sister is Joanna." Then the man snatched up the child in his arms; he seemed almost beside himself. "Thank God, we have found them, Bet. My dear old Theo and Joa! Oh, what a fool I have been, going so far afield, and all the time they are actually at Dereham;" and then he sat down, and a few words cleared up the mystery. About an hour later, as Joanna was drawing the crimson curtains over the window, Jemima threw open the door with a little fling. "There is a child outside wanting to speak to you, ma'am. I would not let her into the passage, because she might have come to beg; but she said she wanted Miss Chaytor most particular." "Very well, Jemima, I will go and speak to her;" and Joanna, who was very tender-hearted and never turned away a tramp unfed, went quickly to the door. A little girl, a tiny creature, was standing there. She looked up in Joanna's face wistfully. "Oh, please will you tell me if you are Miss Chaytor--Miss Joanna Chaytor," correcting herself with careful pronunciation. "That is my name, certainly," returned Joanna, rather surprised at this. "And what do you want with me, my little girl?" "Oh, please, Aunt Joa," returned the child, "I am Betty, dad's little Betty, and daddy is at the gate." And then, the next moment, a man's shadow was distinctly visible. CHAPTER XXI. A CHILD'S CREED. "I was born, sir, when the crab was ascending and my affairs go backwards."--CONGREVE. "Heaven lies about us in our infancy."--WORDSWORTH. Thorold Chaytor was not an imaginative man; he was neither emotional nor impressionable, and more than once lately he had puzzled himself over the singular persistency with which his long-lost brother Tristram haunted him. For the last two or three years he had hardly thought of him, but now, as he crossed the bridge of an evening, little tricks of speech and long-forgotten scenes would recur to his memory; but he never spoke of this to Joanna. "Poor old Trist, I hope nothing has happened to him," he said to himself one evening, when the impression of his brother's presence had been so unusually strong that the familiar face had seemed as though it had been limned against the darkness. And then he thought sadly, and shuddered at the thought, how it was a well-known psychological fact that people at the point of death had often appeared, or rather seemed to appear, to some relative or friend. "Of course, it is only animal magnetism--the transmission of thought--the influence of one mind over another," he thought--"a strong wave-beat of sympathy. But I should not have thought that I was the man for that sort of experience." And then he put this latch-key into the door, and let himself in.