sat down, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed
convulsively. It was all a dream to her, from which she must awake. It
could not be true. Mr and Mrs Jones soothed her. The former, restraining
his own emotion, endeavoured to calm hers, by telling her that it was he
who had written the names in that fortunate hymn book; he who was the
brother of her mother; he who was her uncle, and who would be, not only
an uncle, but a father to her henceforth.

At last, the agitated girl looked up at the kind and loving faces that
were bending over her, and murmured,--

'It cannot be--it is--too good--too great--too happy.'

'It is true, Gladys, my niece, my child,' said Mr Jones, stooping to
kiss her forehead.

Mrs Jones sat down by her, and taking one of her hands in hers, said,--

'It all seems a dream, Gladys. But if it be true, remember, you are now
my niece, my child as well; and, God knows, I love you, and value you
dearly.'

Once more the lonely Gladys felt that she had kindred. Yielding to the
feeling, she threw her arms round Mrs Jones' neck, and gave vent to the
emotion she had been striving to suppress.

At this juncture, Miss Gwynne appeared, who, wondering in her turn what
could detain Mr and Mrs Jones so long from their guests, came to look
for them.

Of course, she wondered still more when she found them both with their
arms round one another and Gladys.

She was going away; but Mrs Jones, perceiving her, said,--

'Come in, dear Freda, Minette's hymn has led to a wonderful
discovery--has given us a niece--a child--in--in--our dear friend
Gladys.'

Miss Gwynne knelt down at the feet of the sobbing Gladys, and taking one
of her hands, said,--

'Gladys, if this be true, we cannot love you better than we do now, or
esteem you more; but you now _feel_ one of us, instead of the isolated
Gladys of this little room, which you have resolutely been hitherto.'

As may be imagined, Gladys was a long time realising the fact, that she
was suddenly, and in the most extraordinary manner, raised from the
Irish beggar, lady's maid, or whatever she had hitherto chosen to
consider herself--for every one about her had long looked upon her as a
friend--to the niece of the good and kind Mr Jones. When she was able to
speak, her first words were,--

'I do not understand it--I cannot believe it. It is too good--too
happy.'

'I can scarcely believe it either,' said Mr Jones, taking up the hymn
book, and turning to his w