“There, now, Sammy, hold still till I tie this hankercher round your neck. Them clo’es won’t be fit to be seen if you keep on droppin’ greasy crumbs over ’em.” Floy was making a desperate effort to be calm. “Where did he take her?” she asked, half concealing her agitated face behind the folds of her veil. “Out to the old gentleman’s place; a splendid place they said it was. I can’t say just how fur off in the woods, where he’d cleared acres and acres of land. Jack never see her after she was took out there, but he said she didn’t die after all, but got married to the young feller that I told you was comin’ home on a visit to the old folks (I think they’d know’d each other afore she was married the first time, and kind a got separated somehow), and when she got about again he took her back with him, and I guess the old folks follered ’em after a bit.” “Where, oh! where?” asked Floy imploringly. The woman started and turned an earnest, inquiring gaze upon her. “I beg pardon, but was they anything to you, miss?” “I was the baby! and I’m looking for my mother. Oh, can you tell me where to find her?” “That must a been a long while ago; you’re a heap bigger’n me, and I ain’t no baby,” remarked Sammy, disposing of the last mouthful of his lunch and wiping his hands on his mother’s handkerchief. “Well, I never!” ejaculated the latter in wide-eyed astonishment. “And you was the baby! well now! Oh, do tell me! was those folks good to you?” “As kind, as tender and loving as my own mother could possibly have been,” answered Floy, with emotion. “But oh, tell me where I shall find her!” “Indeed, I wish I knowed! but I never did know whether ’twas to Californy or Oregon or some other o’ them fur-off places that they went.” “And the man who told you the story?” “Jack Strong? he went off years and years ago. They say he went to the war and got killed, and I guess it’s true.” CHAPTER XV. ALONE. “Though at times my spirit fails me, And the bitter tear-drops fall, Though my lot is hard and lonely, Yet I hope--I hope through all.”--MRS. NORTON. The shrill whistle of a locomotive coming from the direction of Clearfield sent the strolling passengers hurrying back to the train. Pouring into the cars, they settled themselves in their seats with relieved faces and exchange of congratulations that this tedious detention had at last come to an end. Floy, who had borne it with resignation from the first, was now more deeply thankful for it than words can express. There came over her such a rush of glad hopes and expectations as to leave no room at the moment for the recollection that she had as yet not the slightest clue to her mother’s whereabouts. Even her sad bereavements and the cruel misunderstanding with Espy were for a short space half forgotten in the glad anticipation of again experiencing the blessedness of the possession of a mother’s love.