pected this; indeed, hope that their sister
lived had probably deserted them years ago; and yet the confirmation
was naturally something of a shock. They clung to each other for a
moment, and then Miss Hope, rather to Bob's embarrassment, walked
over to him and solemnly kissed him.

"My dear, dear nephew!" she murmured.

Then Miss Charity, more timidly, kissed him too, and presently they
were all sitting down quietly on the porch, checking up the long
years.

When Bob's tin box was finally opened, and the marriage certificate
of his parents, the picture of his mother in her wedding gown, and
a yellowed letter or two examined and cried over softly by the
aunts, Miss Hope began to piece together the story of their lives
since Bob's mother had left them. Bob and Betty had found Faith's
photograph in the family album, but Miss Hope brought out the old
Bible and showed them where her mother had made the entry of the
marriage of his mother and father.

"They went away for a week for their wedding trip, and then came back
to get a few things for housekeeping," said the old lady, patting
Betty's hand where it lay in her lap. Bob was still looking over the
Bible. "Then they said they were going to Chicago, and they drove
away one bright morning, eighteen years ago. And not one word did we
ever hear from Faith, or from David, not one word. It killed father
and mother, the anxiety and the suspense. They died within a week of
each other and less than a year after Faith went. Charity and I
always wanted to go to Chicago and hunt for 'em, but there was the
expense. We had only this farm, and the interest took every cent we
could rake together. How on earth we'll pay it this year is more than
I can see."

"What do you think was the reason they didn't write?" urged Miss
Charity, in her gentle old voice. "There were almost three years
'fore you came along. Why couldn't they write? I know David was good
to Faith--he worshiped her. So that couldn't have been the reason.
Bob, is your father dead, too?"

"I'll tell you, though perhaps I shouldn't," said Bob slowly. "If I
give you pain, remember it is better to hear it from me than from a
stranger, as you otherwise might. Aunt Hope--and Aunt Charity--I was
born in the Gladden county poorhouse, in the East."

There was a gasp from Miss Hope, but Bob hurried on, pretending not
to hear.

"My father, they think, was killed in a railroad wreck," he said. "At
least there was a bad wrec