“Floy!”

Only a word, yet what a world of love and tender sympathy spoke in the tone and in the touch of the hand that gently caressed her hair.

The girl started and looked up.

“Oh, Espy!”

Her cheek dropped again upon the head resting on her bosom, and now the blessed tears came in a flood.

Espy, just returning from college, had been scarcely an hour at home when the news came flashing over the wires that about five miles away a terrible railroad accident had occurred, in which several prominent citizens of Cranley, among whom were the Kempers, had been killed or wounded.

Nearly frantic with fear for Floy, Espy rushed to the depot, and learning that a special train would be sent immediately to carry aid to the sufferers, hurried home again with the tidings.

Mrs. Alden had already packed a basket with such things as she thought might be needed, tied on her hat, and, with a shawl on her arm, stood in the doorway anxiously looking for her son’s return.

He came running, caught up the basket, and, giving her his arm, began to retrace his steps, merely saying in a voice hoarse with emotion, “We must make all haste, mother, or we’ll be left.”

“Floy?” she cried pantingly, as they almost flew over the ground. “Oh, I don’t know!” he gasped, “there are a thousand reports.”

It was only on reaching the scene of the disaster that they learned who, of all their friends, had been killed or injured. What a relief to know that Floy was not of the number! But ah, was she unhurt, with that crushed and almost broken heart?

They found her as we have described. They shared her grief, for they had both become strongly attached to those whose sudden, untimely, and terrible death she mourned.

“Thank God for those tears!” sobbed Mrs. Alden. “Dear child, our loss is her gain; and she has gone to be with the husband she loved so well. The Lord was good to both in letting them go together.”

“Yes,” whispered Floy, laying her precious burden gently down.

Wiping away her tears, she pressed one more long, lingering kiss upon the pale lips, then turned, and giving her hand to Espy, suffered him to lead her from the room.

Truly the girl’s heart was overwhelmed. Her adopted father—whom, until within the last hour, she had deemed in very truth her own—was only less dear than his wife, and the double bereavement, so sudden, so terrible, was enough to crush her young spirit to the earth; and yet was there an added depth of anguish in the thought of the strange revelation made to her by that beloved dying voice.

It seemed to rob her of the full right to the poor luxury of grief. Others also were nearer by the ties of blood; yet oh, it could not be that any other loved them with half the strength of devotion that filled her heart, that any could mourn for them as she who for sixteen years had been enshrined in their affections, and lived continually in the sunshine of their love!

She could not bear to tell this sorrow to any earthly creature; not even Espy must know the sad secret. There was only One into whose ear she could pour out all her griefs. That she could tell Him all and know that He listened—that in all her afflictions He was afflicted—saved the poor heart from breaking.

Mrs. Kemper had been an only child; Mr. Kemper had outlived his brothers and sisters; so that there were no nearer relatives than nephews and nieces, all of whom resided at a great distance. Word was sent to those whose addresses were known, but they were not waited for, as it was impossible they should arrive in time for the funeral.

The Aldens were very kind, treating Floy quite as if she belonged to them, and relieving her of every care in regard to the necessary arrangements for performing the last offices of love to the departed.

It was the evening of the day on which she had looked for the last time upon the dear faces of the loved and lost. At her own request sympathizing friends had all withdrawn and left her alone, and Espy, coming softly into the parlor unannounced, found her weeping bitterly before Mrs. Kemper’s portrait.

“Floy, dearest Floy, my own little wife, would that I could comfort you!” he whispered, taking her in his arms.

“You have been—you are a great comfort to me, Espy,” she said, gently releasing herself.

“Then why may I not embrace you, dear Floy? Ah, I understand! it is because there has never been a formal engagement between us. But we know we love and belong to each other. Is it not so? Darling Floy, promise to be my wife.”

She answered with a look that made his heart bound.

“You are all I have now, Espy,” she sobbed, allowing him to draw her head to a resting-place on his shoulder; “all I have to love or to give love to me.”

“I wish you knew how much I love you, Floy, my poor stricken one, and how I long to comfort you!” he whispered, clasping her close with many a tender caress.

“The cloud is very, very black!” she sighed. “Oh, it seems as if my heart will break! The blow has been so sudden, so terrible—I cannot fully realize it yet. I am stunned. I seem to be living in a dream—a horrible dream; a dreadful nightmare is upon me,” she moaned. “Oh, Espy, wake me and tell me the dear father and mother, alive and well yesterday, are not now lying in the cold grave!” and she shuddered and hid her face, while choking sobs shook her from head to foot.

“They are not there; they are beyond the stars, in the region of unclouded light, dear Floy,” he said.

“Yes, yes, that is true! and oh, thank God that you are left me still!”

No one intruded upon them, and they parted only when it was time for Floy to retire.

Worn out with grief and the fatigue of her journey, she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.

The sun was up when she woke again, birds were singing in the tree close to her window, and the glad voices of children at play on the other side of the street came pleasantly to her ear. Had she escaped from her horrible nightmare?

Alas! for only an instant; it was upon her again. Bitter tears coursed down her cheeks. How lonely and desolate was her lot! but ah, Espy’s love was left her still. There was balm for her wounded spirit in that thought.

Then came another—the secret imparted with Mrs. Kemper’s dying breath. Had not Espy now a right to know the truth as well as she?

She pondered the question for a moment. She was sure it would make no difference in his love, as why should it indeed? But he should know; she would have no concealments from him who was to be her second self.

And, after all, how little there was to tell! What did she know beyond the bare fact that she was the child of her reputed parents only by adoption?

Ah, the paper, the deed of gift her mother had spoken of—she must find it; it would at least tell her her true name. Oh, what an added grief to think that she had no right to the one she had borne since her earliest recollection! and yet, they having given it to her, had she not a right?

On leaving the breakfast-table, where she had gone through the form of taking her morning meal, she went directly to the room where Mr. Kemper’s books and papers were kept, and began her search, at first with confident expectation, though in trembling, eager haste, then anxiously, and at length in sadness akin to despair. She had examined one receptacle after another, till all had been gone over without coming upon the object of her quest. A leaf torn from a note-book—it must be a small paper, easily overlooked; and with that thought in her mind she began her exploration anew. She had not given it up yet when the servant-girl came to say that Mr. Alden was in the parlor.

Floy repaired thither at once.

It was not Espy, but his father, who came forward as she entered, took her hand in his and led her to a sofa, where he seated himself by her side.

“My dear child,” he said, “Espy has told us all, and we are very glad; though of course it is only what we had looked forward to as a settled thing for years past.”

His manner was so paternal and affectionate that for a moment Floy was too much overcome for speech, so vividly did it remind her of the father she had lost.

He understood her emotion, and tried to console her with the assurance that she need no longer feel herself orphaned and alone in the world, since he and his wife would henceforth regard her as their own child.

Then he went on to speak of the necessity of a settlement of Mr. Kemper’s estate, asking her whether there was a will, and who was appointed executor, adding:

“Your father once expressed a wish that I would undertake that office for him, at the same time telling me that his intention was to make a will dividing his property equally between you and his wife, her half to revert to you or your heirs at her death; but the subject was not mentioned between us afterward, and I do not know anything more about the matter.”

“Mother told me there was a will,” said Floy, “and it would give me everything. But I do not know where to find it.”

“Doubtless it is somewhere among his private papers,” said Mr. Alden; adding reflectively, “It will be quite a task for you to examine them, and you should have help. I am very busy just now, but Espy is entirely at leisure. Shall he come and help you look them over?”

The young man came in while his father was speaking, and, on hearing an explanation of the matter, eagerly seconded the offer. Anything to assist Floy, especially if it kept him in her dear society.

“I am ready to begin at once, if it suits your convenience and inclination,” he said to her, and she answering that it did, his father left them, and they repaired together to the room where she had been so busy all the morning.