“Your sister? No--yes; that is, nothing recent, but I have just learned that she has a daughter living at no great distance from this. Shall I send for the girl?” “Send for her? How could you wait to ask? Why did you delay a moment when you know that I’m dying with longing for the sight of somebody who has a drop of my blood in her veins?” she interrupted in great excitement and anger. “Only for your own sake, Madame,” he answered deprecatingly. “Knowing the precarious state of your health--” “Oh, don’t stop to talk!” she cried, half rising from her chair. “Where is she? She must be sent for this instant! As if I could wait, and my sister’s child within reach! Mary must run down and order the carriage at once.” “Softly, softly, my dear Madame,” he said soothingly. “I have anticipated your wishes so far as to make arrangements for the young lady to be here within an hour from this time,” consulting his watch, “and in the mean while I must lay before you the proofs of her identity, and have your opinion as to their being altogether satisfactory and convincing.” “Oh, if you have decided that they are, it’s quite sufficient,” she answered with a sort of weary impatience; “you would be less easily deceived than I.” “But we may as well fill up the time with the examination; and you will be glad to learn something of your sister’s history after your separation?” he remarked persuasively, taking from his pocket the papers Floy had given him. “Ah, yes, yes!” she cried with eagerness. “I did not understand that you had that to communicate to me. Ah, Pansy, Pansy! my poor little Pansy!” and covering her face with her handkerchief, she sobbed convulsively. “Come, my dear Madame, cheer up!” he said, “she is still living--” “Oh, is she? is she?” she again interrupted him, starting up wildly. “But why don’t you go on? why will you keep me in this torturing suspense?” “I am trying to go on as fast as I can,” he said a little impatiently. “I was about to correct my last statement by saying we have at least reason to hope that your sister still lives, and that we shall yet find her.” “But the girl--the daughter--have you seen her? and doesn’t she know all about her mother?” “No, Madame; but if you want to hear the facts, as far as I have been able to gather them, your best plan will be to listen quietly to what I have to say. There is quite a little story to be told, and one that cannot fail to be of interest to you.” Of interest! The Madame almost held her breath lest she should lose a syllable of the narrative as he went on to describe the scenes enacted in the shanty inn and depot at Clearfield Station, in which her sister had borne so conspicuous a part. Then he showed her the deed of gift. “Yes, yes,” she said, pointing to the signature, “that is my poor Ethel’s handwriting. I should recognize it anywhere. It was always peculiar. Oh, where is the child?” “Downstairs in the parlor. Shall I call her? shall I bring her to you?”