The next week they got Mr. Giles’s horse, and drove down to meet Miss Rose at the station.

How glad Clematis was to see her!

She sat in her lap all the way back to Bean Hill, and told her about the mountains, the lakes, the trees, and the birds.

“So you think you would like to stay a whole year, do you?” asked Miss Rose.

Clematis smiled and nodded.

“Deborah can stay too,” she said.

When they got to the little cottage, Miss Rose went in with Mr. Brooks, and had a long talk.

She told him all she knew about Clematis.

He listened while she told him how Clematis ran away, how the policeman found her, and how she came to the Home.

“Have you any trace of her father and mother?”

“No, they said the father’s name was Jones, but I am not sure that was her father’s true name. Both her father and mother died when she was a baby, they say.”

Mr. Brooks looked puzzled.

“Did the mother leave nothing when she died, that people might know her by?”

Miss Rose reached into her little black bag and brought out the picture. Mr. Brooks did not take it at first.

“They said the father’s name was Jones; did they tell you his first name?” he asked.

“No, just Jones. I could learn no other name.”

Miss Rose held out the picture, and Mr. Brooks’s hand trembled as he took it.

After one look, he carried it to the window.

There he held it to the light, and gazed at it a long time.

“Do you see some one there you know?” asked Miss Rose.

“Wouldn’t you know your own daughter, if you saw her?”

Miss Rose smiled. Then she saw tears in his eyes.

“Please forgive me for smiling,” she said. “You reminded me so much of Clematis. She asks questions just like that.”

“Well, wouldn’t you expect her to be like her own grandfather?”

Then Mr. Brooks smiled too.

“Is she really your grandchild?” exclaimed Miss Rose.

“Yes, she is, she must be. This is her mother here.”

He pointed to one of the girls in the picture.

“This was taken in front of the Seminary, a year before she ran away to be married.”

“Oh, it seems just like a fairy story. I can hardly believe it.”

Miss Rose looked again at the picture.

“Yes, it is like a fairy story,” Mr. Brooks replied. “Dear, wayward girl. She needn’t have run away. I would have gladly forgiven her.”

“Then you will take Clematis to live with you, I suppose.”

“Yes indeed. I have wondered about that name, Clematis. Her mother loved flowers. She loved the clematis vine about the door most of all.”

“I suppose she named Clematis in memory of her dear old home,” said Miss Rose.

Then Mr. Brooks told Miss Rose about the white house on the hill.

“I suppose we ought to move back there, now,” he said. “Then Clematis can go to the Union School, and grow up like other children.”

“It is wonderful. It is a fairy story, I am sure,” she replied, “for the fairies must have led Clematis to your door. She will be the happiest child alive, when we tell her.”

And Clematis was the happiest girl alive, when they called her in and told her the whole story.

She climbed into her grandfather’s lap, and held his hand, while Miss Rose told it just like a fairy tale.

“Are we going to live in the house where all the vines are?” she asked, when Miss Rose was done.

“Yes, dear, you are.”

“And I can stay there always?”

“Yes, Clematis.”

“And will you be my grandpa always?”

She looked up at Mr. Brooks. He smiled and kissed her hot cheek.

“Yes, little maiden. You shall be my housekeeper, and we shall be as happy as robins in an apple tree.”

So Miss Rose went back to Boston, and told them all the story.

The children made her tell it over and over again. They said it was better than any fairy tale they had ever read.

“And did she really sleep out in the woods alone?” asked Sally.

“And does her grandfather really and truly have a big white house on a hill?” asked Jane.

“Yes, yes, yes. It is all true, every word of it,” answered Miss Rose.

Even Clematis could hardly believe it all, at first.

She followed her grandfather all about, wherever he went, for fear he might fly away, and never come back.

In the golden October, they moved up to the white house on the hill, grandfather, Clematis, and Deborah.

There Clematis had the room over the porch, where the vines climbed around her window. She could look out each morning, and see the river, and the lakes, with the mountains beyond.

She felt a little strange among all the new people she saw each day, and she had very much to learn. But Clematis learned the best thing of all, to do the best she could, and she soon grew into a sweet, useful girl.

Her little friends loved her, and her teachers helped her, for she tried to please them, and never complained because things were not easy to do.

When she heard that Sally and the other girls could hardly believe her story, she went and whispered to her grandfather.

“May I?” she asked.

“Of course you may,” he said, “as many as you want.”

Then she wrote a letter all her own self. She invited all the girls her own age, at the Home, to visit her the next summer, and see for themselves.

So if you ever go to Tilton, you must look about for a strong, happy girl, with big brown eyes, who studies her lessons, and works in the garden, and has the happiest time any girl ever had, with her grandfather, in the big white house on the hill.