“The night you found me in the cabin, Miss Nathalie,” resumed the young man, “I had become tired of life, for it seemed as if there was nothing for me to live for, for I hadn’t enough ambition to try to better my condition. I could only face the fact that mother was gone, that I had not a cent in the world, as my mother’s annuity ceased with her life, and my soldier’s pension was only a few dollars a week. I realized that I would probably lose my arm, for I knew that it should have a surgeon’s care and I had no money to pay one. And it is right here, Miss Nathalie, that I want you to understand my deep appreciation of, and my hearty thanks for, what you have done for me; also the kindness of Miss Janet,” a sudden light flamed in the young man’s eyes, “and the thoughtfulness of your mother, and your friends, Mrs. Van Vorst and Miss Nita. “The companionship of you all, even of the kiddies, your Liberty boys, has put new life into me. I did become a little discouraged, it is true, when I began to lose my French pupils, and surmised the reason, from various hints that were dropped by some of the people, who were the victims of the thief, for it is not an enlivening thought to fear that your _only_ and very best friends might grow to think you a rascal. “But you all proved so true to me, especially _you_, little Blue Robin, I call you that name, as the bluebird is a bird of cheer, and certainly you have inspired me with the ambition for a new career-to-be, as you have proved yourself such a loyal little comrade in my time of need. Remember, Nathalie, I shall never forget you, or what you have done for me.” Nathalie, her face a wave of color from the unexpected warmth of Philip’s praise, in hasty confusion, as if to change the subject to another one than herself, cried, “But why did you not go, when you were in Boston, to Mrs. Renwick’s trustees, and make yourself known to them? For, if you are her grandson, you are entitled to some of her money.” “For two reasons,” replied Philip slowly. “One was that, in my hasty departure from England it slipped my mind to bring my credentials with me. And then, again,—perhaps my grandmother’s pride has descended to me,—I felt that if she did not love my father,—she had let him go so easily,—that I could have pride, too, and did not care to accept her money. If I could have met her when alive, and had learned that she did have some love for my father, why, then I would have revealed myself to her, and naturally would have felt differently in regard to accepting her money. But I have one thing by which I could have proved my identity to her if she had been still alive. See, it is this little ring. She gave it to my father, who always wore it, as I have done, ever since it came into my possession.”