"I have never known a day's peace since--never a day nor a night without self-reproach. We've prospered--oh, how we've prospered! everything we touch turns to gold! And not a single day of happiness has ever dawned for me, because I meet the reproachful eyes of my boy everywhere!" "But you gave him to a lady who would treat him well." "The doctor promised for her. But how am I to know that she has treated him well? If I could only find out where he is! And then came that dream!" "What dream?" "It came three times, by which I know that it is a true dream. Three times! Each time as vivid and plain as I see you two. I was sick; I thought I was dying, but I wasn't. And I know, now, that I shall not die without seeing my boy. That I know because, in the dream, some one, I don't know who, pointed to England, and said, 'Go over now--this very year--this fall, and you shall find your boy. If you wait longer, you will never find him.' That was a strange dream to come three times running, wasn't it?" "Strange. Yes; a very strange dream." "So we came. John will do anything I ask him. We shall lose--I don't know how much--by coming away. But he came with me. We've been here three weeks. Now listen. First, I found out, by accident, the doctor who took my child away. To be sure, he says he knows nothing more about him, but it is a first step; and now I've found my husband's second son,--that is a second step. And both by accident, that is, both providential. What shall I find next?" "I think," said Molly, with profound sagacity, "that you should give Dick a free hand, and tell him to search about. You don't know how wise Dick is. He gets his wisdom by tramping at night. Let him think for you, dear. You want some one to think for you." Mrs. Haveril turned to Dick. "Can you help me, Dick?" He rose slowly, and began to walk about the room. "Can I? Well, I could try. But I confess the thing seems difficult. It's a new line for me, the detective line. Four and twenty years ago. We don't know who took the child--where she took the child; whether it is still living; whether the lady who took it is living. We want to find the clue." "Dick," said Molly, "if we had a clue, we shouldn't want your assistance. Find one for us." He sat down at the piano. "Ideas come this way often." He played a few chords and got up. "Not this morning. Well, let us see. The doctor says he doesn't know. If he doesn't, who can? Who else was there? An Indian ayah. Where is that woman? No mark on the child? No. Nothing put up with the clothes? A rattle. Ah! People don't keep rattles. And a paper with his Christian name. People don't keep such papers. And so the child disappears. How shall we find him after all these years? Have you anything to suggest? Do you suspect anybody in the whole wide world?"