They were a happy trio that set out for Arlington a half hour later. Harry and Courage walked closely, side by side, for there was much to be said that could not by any chance have any interest for Brevet; besides, you could not have kept Brevet still enough for five seconds together to listen to anything. He was quite as wild with joy as any little terrier, liberated from his kennel for the first run over the hills in a fortnight. But the joy that made him run hither and thither, and come bounding back to press a flower into Courage’s hands, or simply to look up to her face, or brush affectionately against her in true terrier fashion, was something more than animal spirits. Courage was coming up to Ellismere to live! Courage was coming! No little May-time songster was ever more joyous over the coming of Spring, and Brevet would have trilled as glad a carol if he could. But of the three Courage was, if possible, the very happiest, for she had such a happy secret in her 114keeping—that is, in her pocket—for the mail had brought the expected letter. The secret, however, must stay a secret until she should reach Arlington and could have a little private talk with Joe; and so she hurried Harry along much faster than was at all to his liking, for Harry would have been glad to have that walk last for “a year and a day,” and so perhaps would Courage, save for the letter.

It was not that it contained any wonderful revelation—it simply said that unfortunately the asylum authorities knew nothing more of Sylvia’s antecedents than she herself knew; that she had simply been thrust in at the asylum door by some old woman who succeeded in beating a mysterious retreat into the darkness before any one had seen her. A scrap of paper pinned to her dress bore the name of Sylvia, and the statement that the child had neither father nor mother. In addition to this the only possible clew lay in two or three articles found at the time in Sylvia’s keeping. They had been given to her when she left the institution, the matron impressing upon her the need and importance of guarding them carefully, as they would possibly prove of great value some day. They regretted very keenly that they were unable to furnish any further information. But, nevertheless, the letter stirred the first 115real hope for Courage that Joe was right in his conjecture, for it reminded her of the little belongings Sylvia had once shown her—a coral necklace, a gay little silver belt set with imitation turquoise and rubies in great variety, and a much-used devotional book. She remembered there was no writing in the book save the name of what appeared to be some gentleman’s country-place and some date way back in the fifties. She could not recall the name, but she thought she would know it if she heard it, and felt quite sure, now that she came to think of it, that she had heard a name on Mammy’s lips that sounded like it. No wonder that something seemed far more important just then than even her own great happiness, and that she was impatient to reach Joe’s cabin.

“I will hurry on,” she said, when they came in sight of the cabin. “You capture Brevet, Harry, and make him understand that he will be reduced to the ranks if he says one word down here of what has happened up at Homespun—your mother must be the first to know.”

“You have set me a rather difficult task,” laughed Harry; but he saw the wisdom of it, and bearing down upon Brevet he detained him an unwilling little prisoner until he had 116extracted—but slowly and painfully it must be confessed—the required promise. Courage found the little cabin full; that is, Mary Duff, Sylvia and the children all were there as she expected, but a word to Mammy, to whom Courage’s slightest wish was law, and the little cabin was cleared in a twinkling, all hands finding themselves peremptorily shooed like a pack of geese to the pond below, under some foolish pretext or other.

“Has the letter come?” Joe asked, breathlessly. “Any news in it?”

“Yes, I have a letter,” and Courage drew a rocking-chair close to the bed; “but there is nothing new in it, only it suggests something to me. It speaks of some treasures of Sylvia’s that might throw a little light on the subject. I remember now that Sylvia once showed them to me, and I do not see why I have been so stupid as not to think of them before. They were a string of coral beads, a gay belt of some sort, and a little devotional book.”

“Anythin’ written in de book?” interrupted Joe, his clasped hands trembling with excitement.

“Nothing much, Joe. We mustn’t grow too hopeful quite yet, but I am quite sure it was some name such as would belong to a gentleman’s country-place, and I think I should 117recall it if I heard it. Now, doesn’t Mammy sometimes speak of the plantation where she used to live, by some name or other?”

“Sunnyside,” panted Joe, “Sunnyside; it’s on her lips eb’ry day or two. Do you t’ink—do you t’ink dat’s it?”

“Oh, I don’t dare to think, Joe, it would be so easy for me to be mistaken——”

“Call Mammy then, call Sylvy,” Joe cried, excitedly, “call dem quick!”

“Yes, I will call them right away, but, Joe, we must all try to be calm” (for she feared the effect of so much excitement). “You must be calm for your own sake, Joe, and for theirs, and if we should chance to be on the verge of a happy discovery, we must not spring it too suddenly upon them. Let me talk to them a little before you ask Sylvia about the name.”

But Courage in her own mind was quite joyously sure that Sunnyside was the name in the little book. Mammy and Sylvia came in answer to the call from Courage—Mary Duff and the Bennetts, wondering what was up, remained perforce just as obediently behind.

“Sylvia,” said Courage, signalling Joe to be quiet for a moment, “do you remember once showing me a little devotional book of yours? I was trying just now to remember its name.” 118“‘Words of Jesus,’ Miss Courage.”

“‘Words of Jesus,’” said Mammy solemnly. “Oh, but I loved dat little book. My Missus gave it to me years ago, an’ I gave it to my little girl when she was sol’ away from me way down in Alabama.”

“And, Sylvia, there were some other little things, were there not?”

“Yes, Miss Courage, a little string of coral beads, and a tinsel belt, you remember.”

Joe and Courage were looking straight at Mammy, who, ashy white under her dark skin, leaned against the foot of the bed; but Sylvia, all intent upon Joe, did not notice.

“Come nearer, chile,” said Joe, for his turn had come now, although his voice all but failed him as he took Sylvia’s hand in his. “Was somethin’ written in de little book?”

“Yes,” said Sylvia, her own voice unsteady now, for she knew there must be some object in all this questioning.

“Have a care now, Mammy,” cried Joe, exultingly. “Something may be going to happen, Mammy. Was it Sunnyside, chile?”

“Yes, it was Sunnyside,” she answered, eagerly. “What do you know about it, Joe?”

But before Joe could explain, Mammy’s arms were about her in one wild ecstasy of delight, 119and then dropping into a chair she drew Sylvia to her lap.

“O’ course it was Sunnyside, chile! what else could it be after yo’ sayin’ you owned de corals an’ de tinsel belt? I gave dem all three to my little daughter thirty years an’ more ago. Yo’ b’longs ter me!”

“But, Mammy dear, who do you suppose I am?” her arms close about Mammy’s neck.

“Yo’ my little gran’chile, Honey, my little gran’chile come back ter me after all dese years——-”

“But how can you be sure, Mammy? My having the things doesn’t surely make me your grandchild,” and Sylvia looked as though not to be able to be perfectly certain at last would quite break her heart.

“Sure by eb’ryt’ing ‘bout you, Honey; by yo’ face, by yo’ hands, by de way you walk, by yo’ ebery motion, by de way you drink a cup o’ tea. Maria was jus’ about yo’ age when she was sol’ away from me, an’ sometimes you’ve so much ‘minded me of her I could scarce bear to look at you, neber dreamin’ you could possibly b’long ter me. But, Sylvy,” and Mammy’s voice at once grew troubled with the thought that occurred to her, “why hab you neber done try to fin’ yo’ own people, chile?” 120"Why, Mammy! I knew nothing about myself at all. I was just pushed into the door of a coloured orphan asylum in Brooklyn, when I was a little bit of a girl, by a very old woman I remember, and I never saw or heard of her again. There was a little piece of paper pinned on to my dress which merely said, ‘This little girl hasn’t got any father or mother,’ and that my name was Sylvia.”

“Then yo’ ............