. He wrote to my aunt first, but
she said she didn't want me. That is the first part of my story."

"It sounds like a story in a book," said Marjorie, softly. "Go on,
Connie."

"This letter that father received was from my aunt," continued
Constance. "She had been trying to find us for more than two years.
Finally, she saw father's name signed to an article in the musical
magazine, so she wrote a letter and asked the publishers to forward it.
She said in the letter that she was now an old woman who had found that
blood was thicker than water, and that she wanted her sister's daughter,
who must now be a young woman, to come and live with her. With the
letter came a jeweler's box, and in the box was the butterfly pin. She
sent it to me as a Christmas gift.

"I cried and said I would not go, but father said it was the opportunity
of my life time and that I must. He said that he had no legal right to
me and that he loved me too dearly to stand in my way. It almost broke
my heart. How I hated that butterfly and my aunt, too. When you came to
see me that unlucky day I was feeling the worst. That very night I wrote
my aunt a long letter. I told her just how I felt, how much I loved
father and Charlie and poor old Uncle John and that I could never, never
give them up. Father didn't know I wrote the letter. He thought I was
becoming resigned to going away. I went back to school and wore the pin,
as my aunt had asked me to do in a little note enclosed in father's
letter.

"Then her letter came and it was so much nicer than the other that I
cried out of pure happiness. She asked me to bring Charlie to New York.
She knew a famous specialist who she thought might help, if not cure
him. She asked me to make her a visit and said she would never wish me
to come to live with her except of my own free will.

"We went to New York as you know, and, Marjorie"--Constance made an
impressive pause--"Charlie is going to be entirely well in a little
while. The specialist operated on his hip and the operation was
successful. He will be able to walk before very long. When he knew I was
coming home he said, 'Tell Marjorie that I don't need to ask Santa Claus
for a new leg next year, because the good, kind man she told me about
fixed mine.'"

"Dear little Charlie," murmured Marjorie. "I'm so glad."

A pleasant silence fell upon the two young girls. So much had happened
that for a brief moment each was busy with her own thoughts.

"Are you