She answered with a look that made his heart bound. “You are all I have now, Espy,” she sobbed, allowing him to draw her head to a resting-place on his shoulder; “all I have to love or to give love to me.” “I wish you knew how much I love you, Floy, my poor stricken one, and how I long to comfort you!” he whispered, clasping her close with many a tender caress. “The cloud is very, very black!” she sighed. “Oh, it seems as if my heart will break! The blow has been so sudden, so terrible--I cannot fully realize it yet. I am stunned. I seem to be living in a dream--a horrible dream; a dreadful nightmare is upon me,” she moaned. “Oh, Espy, wake me and tell me the dear father and mother, alive and well yesterday, are not now lying in the cold grave!” and she shuddered and hid her face, while choking sobs shook her from head to foot. “They are not there; they are beyond the stars, in the region of unclouded light, dear Floy,” he said. “Yes, yes, that is true! and oh, thank God that you are left me still!” No one intruded upon them, and they parted only when it was time for Floy to retire. Worn out with grief and the fatigue of her journey, she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow. The sun was up when she woke again, birds were singing in the tree close to her window, and the glad voices of children at play on the other side of the street came pleasantly to her ear. Had she escaped from her horrible nightmare? Alas! for only an instant; it was upon her again. Bitter tears coursed down her cheeks. How lonely and desolate was her lot! but ah, Espy’s love was left her still. There was balm for her wounded spirit in that thought. Then came another--the secret imparted with Mrs. Kemper’s dying breath. Had not Espy now a right to know the truth as well as she? She pondered the question for a moment. She was sure it would make no difference in his love, as why should it indeed? But he should know; she would have no concealments from him who was to be her second self. And, after all, how little there was to tell! What did she know beyond the bare fact that she was the child of her reputed parents only by adoption? Ah, the paper, the deed of gift her mother had spoken of--she must find it; it would at least tell her her true name. Oh, what an added grief to think that she had no right to the one she had borne since her earliest recollection! and yet, they having given it to her, had she not a right?