Bruce’s head, which had been lifted slightly from the pillow during this conversation, now fell back from sheer weariness, and for a few moments the boy remained absolutely quiet, wondering if it could be possible that he had found in this street Arab someone who could enlighten him in regard to the mystery which had puzzled him so much and awakened such a deep interest in the heart of Laura Van Kuren. “Who was the man who used to send you up there on errands?” inquired Bruce, after a brief silence. “I never knowed his name. He was a bloke dat useter hang out at a place in Eldridge street, and he seen me around dere an’ gimme a job now an’ den. We useter call him Scar-Faced Charley.” “Well, what sort of a looking man was he?” persisted Bruce, trying not to betray the deep interest that he felt. “He was a tall feller, an’ had a black beard an’ a scar acrost his face,” said Skinny. Bruce asked no more questions, and the young newsboy soon after fell into a doze, leaving the other free to pursue his thought. It seemed to him now that he had at last found a clue to the identity of the man who had known his father, and whom he never doubted for a moment was the same one who had sent Skinny on errands to Mr. Dexter’s house. The more he thought of it the more excited he became, and in his weak condition the excitement soon made itself manifest in his face, so that Miss Ingraham, pausing for a moment beside his cot, noticed the condition of her patient, felt of his pulse, and then called the doctor to see if any change for the worse had taken place. The boy seemed to be on the verge of a fever, so the doctor gave him a quieting draught and bade him compose his mind, if possible, and go to sleep. The next day Bruce awoke feeling calmer and refreshed. The fever of the day before had left him, and when Miss Ingraham made her morning rounds she found him looking so much better that she smiled encouragingly upon him, and told him that he was on the high road to recovery. “Is there anything you would like me to do for you?” said the nurse, kindly. “Yes,” replied the boy timidly, “if it is not too much trouble for you, I would like to have you write me a letter. I can’t use my hands yet and there’s a friend of mine to whom I wish to write.” The nurse, who was accustomed to requests of this sort, brought pen and paper to his bedside, sat down and said: “Well, what shall I write?” “You may begin with Dear Miss Laura,” said Bruce and Miss Ingraham smiled to herself as she wrote it. The letter, which was concocted between them, read as follows: “DEAR MISS LAURA: