this country, we
have received back from the dead, as it were, not only our son, but
also a daughter. I want you to meet her now, my dear, so prepare
yourself for a great surprise, and perhaps, something of a shock."

"I do not understand you, dear," replied Mrs. Cameron, looking
bewildered, "you certainly do not refer to Leslie, I have met her."

"No, my love, Leslie is a beautiful girl, and will be to us a lovely
daughter, but I refer to a daughter of our own flesh and blood."

Stepping to an adjoining room, Mr. Cameron called in a low tone,
"Lyle, my dear," returning immediately to his wife's side to support
her in case the shock should prove too much in her present agitated
condition.

Lyle glided into the room, slowly approaching Mrs. Cameron, who sat
speechless, pale as death, but controlling herself by a visible
effort.

"Edna, my child! my own Edna!" she cried, rising with outstretched
arms, and clasping Lyle to her breast; then turning toward her
husband, she asked:

"What does this mean, Walter? Can this be Edna's child?"

"Yes, my love," he replied, "this is the little Marjorie we have
mourned as dead for so many years."

For a while they sat clasped in each other's arms, their tears
commingling, while Mr. Cameron briefly explained to his wife the main
facts in Lyle's strange history.

"She shall be our own daughter, shall she not, Walter? She shall be to
us just what Edna was?"

"Certainly," was the response, "she is our own daughter, Marjorie Lyle
Cameron."

They returned to Guy's room, Mrs. Cameron resuming her old place, with
Guy's head upon her breast, his hand in hers, only that now Lyle knelt
beside her. At their side, and very near his son, was Mr. Cameron,
while just back of them were Everard, Leslie and Morton Rutherford.
Ned Rutherford and Van Dorn lingered in the door-way watching, while
at the foot of the bed stood Mike, the tears coursing down his rugged
face. On the other side of the bed stood the physicians and nurse,
their keen eyes watching the subtle changes passing over the face, now
white as marble, and almost as motionless.

Fainter and shorter grew the gasping breaths, more and more feeble the
pulse, until at last it was evident to every one within that little
room, that life had very nearly ebbed away.

But there was one who did not, for one instant, lose faith or hope.
The sublime faith which had upheld her through all those years of a
sorrow greater than death, did