“But tell me,” he exclaimed as with sudden recollection, “how has it fared with you during all these long, weary months that we have been so far apart? Well, I trust, for you are looking in far better health than when I saw you last. But how came you here in Philadelphia? I hoped, yet called myself a fool for hoping, that I might find you here, for I could not suppose you had means to come, much as you might desire to do so.” “Yes,” she said softly, “I did greatly desire to come, and a good Providence opened the way, Espy,” and she looked earnestly at him. “I have found the deed of gift, learned my true name, and discovered--no, not my mother,” as she saw the question in his eyes, “but her sister, who is now helping me in my search.” “Oh, Floy, how glad I am! And I, too, will help!” he exclaimed. “Helping you to find your lost mother has always been a part of my dream, and I have been working to that end. I have thought that she, if living and prosperous, would come to this great Exhibition, this Centennial of our country, and the subjects for my pictures were chosen accordingly; I have painted for her eye more than for any other. But I shall not describe them,” he continued in response to her eager, inquiring look. “They were hung only this morning, and I will take you to see them.” She rose hastily, but he drew her back. “Not yet, Floy, darling! let us stay here a little longer. I think the crowd may lessen in the next hour, and there is so much I want to say to you--to ask you. What of this new-found relative--this aunt? Are you happy with her? is she kind to you?” “She is very fond of me, and I have a good home with her,” Ethel answered, smiling brightly as she turned her face to him. “And she will be glad, very glad, to see you, Espy. I have told her the whole story of our acquaintance and engagement, and she is deeply interested for us both.” He flushed with pleasure. “Ah, Floy, my little love! our skies are brightening; the course of true love begins to run smooth. How glad I am for you!” “Do you know,” she said gayly, “that you have not asked me my true name? though I told you I had found it.” “Ah, yes; I want to hear it, and how and where you found the paper; but I think you must let me call you always by the name I have loved so dearly since we were mere babies. I think no other can ever sound so sweet to my ear.” “I shall allow my willing slave to have his own way in this one thing,” she returned sportively. “I do not object to being Floy to you, though all others call me Ethel.” “Ethel!” he said, “that is a sweet name too.” “Yes; allow me to introduce myself. Mr. Alden, I am Ethel Farnese, sometimes called Pansy by my aunt--a pet name she had formerly bestowed upon my mother, the first Ethel Farnese.” “I like that also,” he said, gazing with all a lover’s admiration into the sparkling, animated face. “You are rich in sweet names, as who has a better right?”