“Burns was a sage,” he remarked, laughing, “but I can’t say that I find the application particularly complimentary. And you are not disappointed in your mother?” “Disappointed! I would not have her different in any respect. I find, to my unspeakable joy, that, besides possessing the sweetest natural disposition, she is an earnest, devoted Christian.” “I am glad for your sake. Where is she now? I should like to see her again.” “Stay and spend the evening with us, and you shall. Just now she is lying down. I persuaded her to try to take a nap while Aunt Nannette was doing so.” “Thank you. Then I will come back,” he said, rising, “but I must leave now for a while. I had forgotten a business letter that must go by the next mail.” He went, and Ethel stole softly upstairs to her own room and sat down there to think over her great happiness--so great that hardly yet could she fully believe in its reality. Presently she started up, and going to a bureau-drawer, took from it the old, worn, faded pocket-book that, because of her love for the departed, in whose service its brightness had grown dim, was so precious a relic. A moment she stood gazing upon it, a tender dewiness in her soft, bright eyes, then opening, drew forth a tiny folded paper. A light, quick step coming from an adjoining room caused her to turn her head. “Mother!” she cried in low, musical tones, rapturous with love and gladness. “Darling daughter!” Mrs. Heywood responded, putting her arms about the slender, girlish figure, and folding it to her heart with a tender caress. Their joy, though no longer expressed in tears, was still almost too deep for words. For several moments they stood holding each other in a silent embrace; then Ethel, putting the folded paper into her mother’s hand, said: “Here, dear mamma, is a proof of my identity that till now I had forgotten to produce.” “It is altogether unnecessary, my precious child,” Mrs. Heywood answered, opening the paper as she spoke. But as her eye glanced down the written page her cheek suddenly paled, and she uttered a low cry. “This!” she said, with a shudder, “my contract with Mr. Kemper! Child, child, put it into the fire! Never let me see it again! Oh, what the signing of it has cost me!” THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Signing the Contract and What it Cost, by Martha Finley