d all kinds of things. Hasn't anybody tried to
find out?"

"Oh yes, lots of people!" replied Linda. "But it's no use. There isn't
anything to trace her by. Mercy can't bear to hear it spoken of unless
she mentions it first, and she scarcely ever does. Miss Kaye said it
was much wiser for her not to think about it, because it was such a
forlorn hope, and it was better to be content with the friends she has
and make the most of them. I think she feels it though, sometimes,
when we're all going back for the holidays and talking about our
homes."

"I'm sure she must. Oh, Linda, wouldn't it be lovely if we could find
out her relations? Do let us set to work at once."

"How can we?" said Linda, who had a practical mind.

"I don't know quite how at first, but I have a kind of feeling it may
be done if we only try. I'm going to leave no stone unturned. It's as
interesting as _Hetty Gray_, or _Marjorie's Quest_. Just think that
almost every lady whom Mercy meets may be her mother!"

"They couldn't all be," objected Linda.

"Of course not, but she might be talking to some of her own relations,
and never know it!"

"I don't see how we can help that. People aren't labelled in families
like pots of different kinds of jam, so how could we find out?"

"Oh, don't be stupid! I only mean that we must keep our eyes and our
ears open and listen for every opportunity. I'm going to begin
to-morrow, and if you like to help you can, and if you don't you
needn't."

Greatly fired by her resolution, Sylvia was anxious to solve the
secret of her friend's parentage without further delay. Unfortunately
she did not know exactly how to start. It was impossible to question
Mercy herself, and none of the other girls knew more than Linda had
told her. She decided, therefore, that the only chance was to notice
if anyone looked as if they were seeking somebody, when perhaps she
might be the happy means of bringing about the fortunate meeting, and
have the proud satisfaction of saying: "Here is your long-lost
daughter!"

"It would be the happiest moment of my life," thought Sylvia, "nicer
even than writing a book, though I mean to do that some day. Indeed I
think, when it's all turned out properly, I might make it into a
story, if Mercy wouldn't mind. I could call it _A Waif from China_, or
perhaps _The Little Foundling_, only she's quite big now. _Nobody's
Darling_, would sound beautiful, but she's everybody's darling, so
that wouldn't do. I