gh, low and sweet. But ah, she could not
tell him! She could not say to him, "I am the daughter you lost so long
ago. I have seen in your safe the fellow of the shoe I wore when I was
found by my kind friends." Of course it would convince him; but she could
not say it. She must wait until he found out the truth for himself. But
would he ever find it out? She hoped and thought he would. Had he not
marked what she said about her having had on only one shoe when she was
found? And would not that lead him to think and enquire? Meanwhile, she
herself knew the wonderful truth; and she could afford to wait. It would
all come right, of course it would; any other thought was too ridiculous
to be entertained.

Very quietly, and with almost reverent fingers, she wound the faded
bonnet-string once more around the little shoe, and wrapped them up again
in the much-crumpled paper.

"How often must he have unfolded it!" was the thought that nestled in her
heart, as she replaced the precious parcel in the safe, and closed and
locked the ponderous door.

From the office, the young secretary went directly to her own room. To
open her trunk, and plunge her hand down into the corner where lay her own
little parcel of relics, was the work of a moment. There was certainly no
room for doubt. The little, stout, leather shoe which she had treasured so
long was the fellow of the one she had just seen in the safe downstairs.
There was the very same curve of the sole, made by the pressure of the
little foot--her own, and similar inequalities in the upper part. With a
sudden movement, she lifted the tiny shoe to her lips. And here was her
funny old sun-bonnet! How often she had wondered what had become of its
other string! Last of all, she took up the little chemise, which completed
her simple store of relics, and gazed intently upon the red letters with
which it was marked. All uncertainty as to their meaning was gone. What
could "M.H." stand for but "Marian Horn"? With a grateful heart, she
rolled up her treasures, and, having consigned them once more to their
place in the trunk, went downstairs. Miss Jemima was indisposed; and,
having seen the nurse duly installed in the sick-room, she had retired
for the night. Accordingly, Miss Owen, much to her relief, had supper
by herself. She felt that she did not wish to talk to any one just at
present, and to Miss Jemima least of all.

When the young secretary fell asleep that night, she was lulled wi