Then, as the conviction came over her that Mary was indeed the child of her own sister, she wound her arms about her neck, and kissing her lips, murmured, "My child,--my Mary. Oh, had I known this sooner, you should not have been so cruelly deserted, and little Allie should never have died in the alms-house. But you'll never leave me now, for all that I have is yours--yours and Ella's." The thought of Ella touched a new chord, and Mrs Campbell's tears were rendered less bitter, by the knowledge that she had cared for, and been a mother, to one of her sister's orphan children. "I know now," said she, "why, from the first, I felt so drawn towards Ella, and why her clear, large eyes, are so much like my own lost darling's, and even you, Mary--" Here Mrs. Campbell paused, for proud as she now was of Mary, there had been a time when the haughty lady turned away from the sober, homely little child, who begged so piteously "to go with Ella" where there was room and to spare. All this came up in sad review, before Mrs. Campbell, and as she recalled the incidents of her sister's death, and thought of the noble little Frank, who often went hungry and cold that his mother and sisters might be warmed and fed, she felt that her heart would burst with its weight of sorrow. "Oh, my God!" said she, "to die so near me,--my only sister, and _I_ never know it,--never go near her. _I_ with all my wealth, as much hers as mine,--and she dying of starvation." Wiping the hot tears from her own eyes, Mary strove to comfort her aunt by telling her how affectionately her mother had always remembered her. "And even on the night of her death," said she, "she spoke of you, and bade me, if I ever found you, love you for her sake." "Will you, do you love me?" asked Mrs. Campbell. Mary's warm kiss upon her cheek, and the loving clasp of her arms around her aunt's neck, was a sufficient answer. "Do you know aught of my Aunt Sarah?" Mary asked at last; and Mrs. Campbell replied, "Nothing definite. From father we first heard that she was in New York, and then Aunt Morris wrote to her uncle, making inquiries concerning her. I think the Fletchers were rather peculiar in their dispositions, and were probably jealous of our family for the letter was long unanswered, and when at last Sarah's uncle wrote, he said, that 'independent of _old Temple's_ aid she had received a good education;' adding further, that she had married and gone west, and that he was intending soon to follow her. He neither gave the name of her husband, or the place to which they were going, and as all our subsequent letters were unanswered, I know not whether she is dead or alive; but often when I think how alone I am, without a relative in the world, I have prayed and wept that she might come back; for though I never knew her,--never saw her that I remember, she was my mother's child, and I should love her for that."