Ross took his hat, and went out again, walking rapidly toward the Laurence cottage. This time he sought the back entrance, and found Mrs. Laurence alone in her kitchen. Her keen, grey eyes were as hard as steel, when she turned them upon him, with a look that seemed half fear half defiance. “Well,” she said, sharply, “you know it all now. Is it in you to take her away from us, now that we need her more than ever?” “I have come to ask some questions. This paper speaks of articles that are in your possession. May I look at them?” Mrs. Laurence sunk into a chair; the little color natural to her face died out, leaving only a flush around the eyes. “I—I cannot give them to you just now,” she stammered. “Did the paper speak of them?” “Yes; and they are important—very important.” “But how was I to know that you would ever come, or that anyone—a man particularly—would want a lot of baby-clothes?” “But I do want them, and at any cost must have them,” said Ross, almost fiercely, “Surely they are not destroyed?” “Destroyed? No; I haven’t done that.” Ross drew a deep breath, and the hot color, which mounted to his face, died out as the woman completed her sentence. “But they are not all on hand.” “Not on hand?” “What right have you to question me so? Most of the things are here; but we were starving, sir—starving! Do you know what that means? I pawned one or two things. There, you have the truth. Go in and look at the pale girl lying there; then wonder, if you can, that I gave up everything to keep her from dying before my eyes.” “But they can be found? Surely they are not out of reach?” said Ross, anxiously. “I don’t know. We haven’t been rich enough to redeem anything; but you shall have the tickets. Wait.” Mrs. Laurence went up the back stairs, and left Ross walking restlessly up and down the kitchen. She was gone some time, but came down at last, carrying a bundle in her hand. “Here are the things,” she said curtly. “Yellow as saffron, with lying; but here they are.” She opened the bundle, and shook out a long infant’s frock, trimmed half a yard deep with Valenciennes lace and embroidery, all yellow with age, but of exquisite richness. Ross laid it aside with an impatient movement of the hand. “It tells nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.” “The moths have got into the flannel,” said Mrs. Laurence, passing her hand under the rich, silken embroidery of a flannel skirt; “but you can see the pattern, for they never touch silk. Some lady did that, let me tell you, with her own fingers. This is no hired work.” Ross glanced at the pretty grape-vine, which had grown golden on the riddled flannel, and was himself struck by its beautiful finish. All at once he snatched it from the woman’s hold, and examined it more closely, as if he saw something curious in every leaf and tendril. “I should know the pattern. Somewhere I have seen it before,” he muttered, in a voice that was almost inaudible; “but where? how?”