"Nothing," explained Marian, "only everything." "She thought I was her mother, Florence, the poor little girl; there, there, dear, don't cry. She was only half awake and she says I look like her mother's picture." "You do, you look just like the picture," sobbed Marian. "What picture?" asked the man; "this child is the image of brother. What picture, I say?" "Oh, she means mamma's miniature," said Florence. "I don't mean the miniature," Marian interrupted, "I mean my own mother's picture," and the child, kneeling before her small trunk quickly found the photograph of her father and mother. "There! doesn't she look like my mother?" There was a moment of breathless silence as Florence Weston's father and mother gazed at the small card. The woman was the first to speak. "Why, Richard Lee!" she exclaimed. "That must be a photograph of you!" "It is," was the reply, "it is a picture of me and of my dead wife, but the baby died too." "Well, I didn't die," cried Marian. "I was two months old when my father went away, and when my mother died, the folks wrote to the place where my father was the last time they knew anything about him, and I s'pose they told him I was dead, but I wasn't, and that's my mother. Uncle George knows it----" "Uncle George, my brother George," for a moment it was the man who seemed to be dreaming. Then a light broke over his face as he snatched Marian and said, "Why, little girl, you are my child." "And my mother will be your mother," Florence put in, "so what are you and mamma crying about now?" "Didn't you ever hear," said Marian, smiling through her tears, "that sometimes folks cry for joy?" It was unnecessary for Aunt Amelia to take the long journey. Marian's father telegraphed for Uncle George who arrived the next day with papers Marian knew nothing about, proving beyond question the identity of the child. The little girl couldn't understand the silent greeting between the brothers, nor why Uncle George was so deeply affected when she talked of his kindness to her and the many happy days she thanked him for since he found her in the Little Pilgrims' Home. Neither could she understand what her father meant when he spoke of a debt of gratitude too deep for words. Marian only knew that unpleasant memories slipped away like a dream when Uncle George left her with her father and mother: when he smiled and told her he was glad she was going home. * * * * * Transcriber Notes Tags that surround the words: _fish_ indicate italics. =Gladys= indicate bold. Words in small capitals are shown in UPPERCASE. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. Free use of quotes, typical of the time, is retained. +------------------------------------------------------------+