“My trunk! my trunk! My darling little blue trunk!”  
“Massa Joe says for you to go right straight back to the library, missy. He says you done get the pneumony, cuttin’ up that way in the snow, and you not raised in it. He says not to let that boy in here. I—I’s sorry to disoblige any little lady what’s a-visitin’ of us, but”—
 
“It’s my trunk, Peter. Don’t you hear?”
 
“Yes, missy. But Lafayette, that’s his business, hauling luggage. I’se the butler, I is.”
 
Josephine retreated a few paces from the door. She had lived in the open air, but had never felt it pinch her nose as this did. Her feet, also, were cold, and growing wet from the[81] snow which was melting on them. But Peter was attending to that. He was wiping them carefully with his red handkerchief, and Josephine lifted first one, then the other, in silent to his touch. But her interest was wholly in the trunk, which had now been deposited in the vestibule, and from which Lafayette was carefully removing all particles of snow before he carried it up over the carpeted stair.
 
Mr. Smith limped to the library door and looked out. He had meant to send word that the trunk should be retained at the railway station for the present, or until he should find out to whom Josephine had really been “consigned,” and asked, in vexation:
 
“Come already, has it? Humph! If it had been something I wanted in a hurry, they’d have taken their own time about delivering it. Said they couldn’t handle goods in a storm, and such nonsense. I don’t see, Peter, as it need be taken upstairs. Have it put in the storeroom, where it will be handier to get at when she leaves.”
 
[82]Both Peter and Josephine heard him with .
 
“What is that, Uncle Joe? That ‘when I leave.’ Have I—have I been so—so and forgetful that—that you can’t let me stay?”
 
“No, no, child. I merely meant— There, don’t look so . You are here for the day, anyway, because none of us can go about in such weather. I’ll telephone for— There. No matter. It’s right. It’s all right. Don’t, for goodness sake, cry. Anything, anything but that. Ugh! my foot. I must get out of this draught,” he almost yelled.
 
Josephine was very grave. She walked quietly to Uncle Joe’s side, and clasped the hand which did not hold a with both her own.
 
“It’s dreadful funny, seems to me. Aren’t we going to stay in this house all the time? I wish—I’m sorry I about the box and the heatheny money. But if you don’t mind, I must, I must, get into my trunk. The key is in my in my room. Mamma put it there with the clean clothes I wore last night.[83] She said they would last till the trunk came; but that as soon as ever it did I must open it and take out a little box was in it for you. The very, very moment. I must mind my mamma, mustn’t I?”
 
“Yes, child, I suppose so,” he slowly returned.
 
Mr. Smith was now in his reclining chair, with his foot stretched out in comfort. He spoke gently, rather sadly, in fact, as he added:
 
“My child, you may open your trunk. I will never counsel you to do anything against your mother’s wishes. She seems to be a sensible woman. But there has been a mistake which I cannot understand. I am Joseph Smith. I have lived in this house for many years, and it is the street and number which is written on the tag you showed me. Do you understand me, so far?”
 
“Course. Why not?”
 
“Very well. I’m sorry to tell you that I have no twin brother, no ‘sister Helen,’ and no niece anywhere in this world. I have many[84] cousins whom I distrust, and who don’t like me because I happen to be richer than they. That’s why I live here alone, with my colored ‘boys.’ In short, though I am Joseph Smith, of number 1000 Bismarck Avenue, I am not this same Joseph Smith to whom your mamma sent you. To-morrow we will try to find this other Joseph Smith, your mislaid uncle. Even to-day I will send for somebody who will search for him in my stead. Until he is found you will be safe with me, and I shall be very happy to have you for my guest. Do you still understand? Can you follow what I say?”
 
“Course,” she instantly responded.
 
But after this brief reply Josephine dropped down upon the rug and gazed so long and so silently into the fire that her host was to put an end to her reflections by asking:
 
“Well, little girl, of what are you thinking?”
 
“How nice it would be to have two Uncle Joes.”
 
“Thank you. That’s quite to me. But I’m afraid that the other one might[85] prove much dearer than I. Then I should be jealous,” he returned, smiling a little.
 
Josephine looked up brightly.
 
“I know what that means. I had a kitten, Spot, and a dog, Keno; and whenever I petted Spot Keno would put his tail between his legs and go off under the sofa and look just—mis’able. Mamma said it was made him do it. Would you go off under a table if the other Uncle Joe got petted? Oh! I mean—you know. Would you?”
 
Though this was not so very , Mr. Smith appeared to comprehend her meaning. Just then, too, a severe twinge made him contort his features and utter a .
 
Josephine was on her feet and at his side instantly, crying out:
 
“Oh, does it hurt you so dreadful much? Can’t I do something for it? I can bathe feet beautiful. Bridget her ankle and mamma let me bathe it with arnica. Big Bridget said that was what cured it so quick. Have you got any arnica? May I bathe it?”
 
[86]“Would you really handle a red, unpleasant, old foot and not dislike it?”
 
“I guess I shouldn’t like it much. I didn’t like big Bridget’s. I felt queer little feelings all up my arm when I touched it. She said it hurt me worse than it did her. But I’d do it. I’d love to do it even if I didn’t like it,” she answered bravely.
 
“Peter, fetch the arnica. Then get a basin of hot water,” he ordered.
 
The pain was returning with redoubled force, and Mr. Smith shut his lips grimly. He looked at Josephine’s plump little hands, and felt that their touch might be very ; as, indeed, it proved. For when the servant brought the things desired, the little girl sat down upon the hassock beside the great chair and ministered to him, as she had done to big Bridget. The applications were always helpful, but the tender strokes of her small fingers were more grateful than the similar ministrations of the faithful, yet hard-handed, Peter.
 
“Now I’ll put it to bed, as if it were Rudanthy.[87] Poor Rudanthy! How bad she must feel without any face. That’s worse than having a sore foot, isn’t it?” as she heaped the coverings over the gouty toes.
 
“Far worse. Only waxen faces are not subject to pain.”
 
“I s’pose not. Now, Uncle Joe, would you like me to sing to you?”
 
“Can you sing?”
 
“Course. Mamma sings beautifully. She is the leader in our . My papa says she makes him think of angels when she sings. I don’t sing like her. Course not. But I can do some things, if you like me to.”
 
“What about the trunk, Josephine? Though I really think you would better leave it packed pretty nearly as it is, since”—
 
“Uncle Joe, I’ve been thinking about that other uncle we’ve lost. If he isn’t nice, and mamma will let me, I’ll stay with you.”
 
He did not dampen her spirits by suggesting that she would better wait for him to ask her to stay, and merely answered:
 
[88]“Well, time will show what’s best. Shall Peter unlock that trunk?”
 
Mr. Smith did not wish to break into anybody’s confidence; yet, since she had spoken of a box for the mislaid “Uncle Joe,” he felt that he would be in examining, at least, the outside of it.
 
Josephine went away with the old colored man, but did not tarry long. The tin box was very near the top of the trunk, and she was in haste to give it to her patient, to whom she explained:
 
“I know what’s in it. Nothing but some California flowers. Mamma said that you would like them, even if they faded a little. But she hoped they wouldn’t fade. The box is tight, like the big one she and papa take when they go botanizing. Mamma is making a collection of all the flowers she can and putting them in a big, big book. She knows their names and all about them. Mamma knows—everything.”
 
“I begin to think so, too, little girl. I never before heard of so much and wisdom[89] shut up in one woman. Yes, I see. The box is addressed exactly like the tag. Still, I do not feel I have a right to open it, for it is sealed, you see.”
 
“That’s only paper. It is to keep out the air. The air is what spoils things like violets. Please do open it, or let me. Mamma would be so dreadfully disappointed if you didn’t. Why, think! We were in that terrible hurry, yet she took time to fix it. She hadn’t seen you in so many years, she said, and so she must send it. Please.”
 
“But I am not the ‘you’ she meant, you know, Josephine.”
 
“Well, you’re somebody, aren’t you? You’re my Uncle Joe, anyway, whether you’re the regular one or not. Shall I?” and she held the box edgewise, ready to tear the strip of paper which fastened its edges.
 
“Y-es, I suppose so. It may lead to the explanation of this riddle,” he .
 
As the little girl had said, there was nothing whatever in the tin box except a quantity of violets, with some of the wild blossoms that[90] brighten the mesas in spring-time, and one tiny of paper, on which was written, in evident haste
 
“Dear Brother Joe: Let these violets tell you all that I would say; and, as you are good to our little one, may God be good to you.
 
“Helen.”
 
“Well, there’s no great injury done anybody by that deed, I think. We’ll put the note back in the box and the flowers in water. When the mislaid Joseph arrives we’ll restore him his property in the best shape we can,” said Mr. Smith.
 
Peter listened, surprised. His master was almost mirthful, and that, too, even during an attack of his . If this were the effect of Josephine’s presence, he hoped that she would remain; though he was shrewd enough to comprehend, from Mr. Smith’s words, that this was doubtful.
 
“The worst I hopes about it is that that other out-of-the-way Joe Smith turns out a[91] wuthless creetur’ that Massa Joe won’t be trustin’ little missy with. I ain’t a-wishin’ nobody no harm, I ain’t, but I’se powerful willin’ the mislaid uncle stays lost forever. Yes, suh,” he assured his fellow-servants.
 
The violets were in a cut-glass bowl which Peter received no reprimand for bringing, though it was the choicest piece in his master’s possession, but, as the old man reasoned: “The fittenest one for posies what had travelled in a little gell’s trunk, all the way from Californy.” The gouty foot had ceased to its owner; the street without was quiet; the fire glowed in the grate, and its glow was reflected in a lonely old man’s heart as on the happy face of a little girl who nestled beside him. He remembered her statement that she could sing, but he had been musical in his own day and shrank from . Could a child so young make real melody? He doubted it, yet it was now his intention to make her as happy as it lay in his power to do, for the brief while that he might keep her; and he recalled her mother’s written words:
 
[92]“As you are good to our little one, may God be good to you.”
 
So he forced himself to say:
 
“If you want to sing now, Josephine, I will listen.”
 
It wasn’t a very gracious request, but the other did not notice that. The sight of the home flowers had brought back a crowd of happy memories, and without delay she began:
 
“Maxwelton braes are bonny,
Where early fa’s the dew,”
and had not proceeded thus far before the old Virginian had raised himself upright in his chair and was listening with all his keenly-critical ears to the sweetest music he had ever heard.
 
Josephine sang for love of singing. She could no more help it than a bird could, for song came to her as naturally as to it. Her voice was birdlike, too, in its clearness and compass, and true in every note.
 
“Do you like that song, Uncle Joe?” she asked.
 
“Like it? It’s wonderful. Child, who trained you?”
 
[93]“I—why, I’ve just sung with mamma; though papa says that when I am older, if he is able, I shall have other teachers. I don’t think anybody can be better than mamma, though,” she answered.
 
“Something else, little girl,” came the prompt request.
 
It was as pure to her as to him. She sang whatever came to her mind, and many old suggested by himself. With each one he grew more enthusiastic, and finally called Peter to bring him his .
 
By this time that bewildered creature was prepared for anything. When he and Massa Joe had been young, music and the flute had been their delight. But it was years and years since that ancient instrument had been breathed upon, though it always lay, wrapped in its swaddling clothes, convenient to its owner’s desk. , when it was brought, it uttered but the ghosts of former melodies, yet nobody in that small company was the sadder for that. The unusual sounds stole through the house, bewitched Lafayette from his cleaning and[94] Apollo from his range. Open-eyed, they stood without the library door and wasted their time, with none to reprove; because, for once, the sharp eyes of the major-domo, Peter, were upon a more sight.
 
Into the midst of this happy scene came the ring of the electric bell, and instantly all other sounds ceased.
 
“Who in the world would upon us, on such a day as this!” cried Mr. Smith, at last arousing from the unusual mood into which he had been betrayed by Josephine’s sweet voice.
 
“Maybe it’s company, Uncle Joe.”
 
“No company comes here without invitation, child.”
 
“I came, didn’t I? But we didn’t know that, then.”
 
“Business, I suppose. Always business; and to-day I’m unfitted for all business.”
 
Business, indeed. For there was into the room, by the frowning Peter, the man whom of all others his master now least wished to see.