There were papers scattered over the table, and one or two had fallen on the floor.

“You see I had begun the task before your father came,” Floy said, with a sad smile; “but before we resume it I have something to say to you,” she added with an effort, growing so pale that Espy caught her in his arms, thinking she was about to faint.

“My poor Floy!” he said, “if it is anything painful, don’t tell it; there is no need.”

“I want you to know it, Espy,” she sighed low and tremulously, “but to keep it secret from all others unless—unless it—circumstances should render it necessary that—”

Her head dropped upon his shoulder, and with a burst of hysterical weeping, “Oh, Espy, Espy!” she cried, “I’m more than orphaned; I’ve lost my identity; I’m not Floy Kemper—not the child of the dear parents I mourn, except—except by adoption!”

He was greatly surprised, but only drew her closer to him, as one made dearer still by her sore distress, her utter loneliness; and as she went on in her low, quivering tones, “I’ve none now but you; I’m all alone in the wide world—not a relative living, so far as I know,” a strange thrill of joy mingled with his sympathetic grief—joy that she was his, his alone to love and cherish to life’s end; that on him only she would lean as her earthly stay and support.

Something of this he whispered in reply, accompanying his words with fond caresses and endearing epithets.

“How good and noble you are, my Espy!” she said. “You still hold me to your heart without waiting to learn who or what I am.”

“You are my own little Floy, whom I have loved from her very babyhood,” he interrupted, holding her fast as she made a movement as if to release herself from his embrace, “and that is all I care to know.”

She lifted her large, lustrous eyes to his with a look of grateful love. “No, no, I will not take advantage of your generous affection,” she said, the tears streaming down her cheeks. “Wait till I have told you all—till you know everything. Till then I will not hold you bound by—what passed between us last night.”

“I will not accept my freedom”—he began impetuously. But she stopped him with an imperative gesture.

“Hear my story.” And in a few rapid sentences she gave him the facts as learned from Mrs. Kemper.

His face brightened as she proceeded.

“What is there in this, Floy, to come between us, or even to raise an objection to our union in the mind of the most captious?” he asked. “You were born in wedlock, your mother was a lady, and presumably your father a gentleman. Besides, there is absolutely no need that any one but our own two selves should ever learn these facts. You are known as the child of Mr. and Mrs. Kemper, and that you are not, concerns us alone.”

“Is that so?”

“Certainly; and now let us look for the will.”

“The will!” A sudden painful thought had flashed upon her. Espy saw it in her face.

“Well, dearest, what is it?” he asked.

“If we should not find it?”

Her voice was low and husky.

“Then we shall do the best we can without it,” he answered cheerily, turning to the table and taking up a roll of papers tied together with a bit of red tape. “Have you looked at this?”

“No—yes, but only with care enough to make sure that the deed of gift was not among them. But the will—if it is not found, does not the law give everything to father’s relatives? and will not that make this—this secret of mine public?” she asked, speaking with difficulty, as if the subject were almost too painful for discussion.

Espy started, and dropped the packet upon the floor; but recovering himself, stooped to pick it up, saying with determination:

“But we will find it; of course it must be here or somewhere about the house. Cheer up, Floy dear, and let us go to work.”

They spent the greater part of three days at their task. Every paper was unfolded, shaken out, examined and re-examined, every nook and corner diligently ransacked, and thorough but unavailing search made for secret drawers, yet neither will nor deed of gift could be found.

At last they were forced to the conclusion that the deed of gift was irrecoverably lost; the will also, if it had ever existed, which seemed very doubtful.

“Ah, what success to-day?” asked the elder Mr. Alden, coming in upon them as they were slowly replacing the papers in the secretary, almost hoping, even against hope, to yet come upon the missing papers.

“None, sir,” answered Espy.

“What! no will? Surely you must have overlooked it. Mrs. Kemper you say, Floy, told you there was one—just such as Mr. Kemper had told me he purposed making—and he could have no motive for concealing it. Let me think; possibly he may have carried it on his person. Have you examined the pockets of—”

“No!” cried Espy, starting up with animation. “Floy—”

“Oh, I cannot!” she groaned, hiding her face.

“No, no, assuredly not; forgive me, darling,” he whispered, bending over her; “but may I?”

She gave a silent assent, and he and his father left the room.

In a few moments they returned, Espy carrying a large-sized pocket-book, old and worn, which he placed in Floy’s hands, saying, “This is all we found. It is for you to open and examine it.”

She did so, her tears dropping over it all the time. It contained a little change and a few papers of no great importance—receipted bills, memoranda, etc.

“It is not here; he never made it,” she said huskily, pushing the book and its contents from her. “Ah, father, father, what has your neglect cost me!”

“Don’t be so distressed, child; there is really no occasion,” said Mr. Alden soothingly. “I don’t know why, as I told Espy yesterday, you and he have taken so much trouble to hunt for the will, as, you being the only child, the law gives all to you in case your father died intestate, as it seems he did.”

She lifted her white face, which she had hidden in her hands; she would not see Espy’s imploring look.

“No, Mr. Alden, you mistake,” she said; “I, lacking the will, am not the heir.”

“Nonsense, my dear child! ’Tis you who are mistaken. Why, how could you doubt that you, his only child, inherit Mr. Kemper’s property by natural right, unless he chose to will it, or part of it, to some one else?”

She seemed shaken with contending emotions; but controlling herself by a strong effort, and looking with steady, mournful gaze into the eyes of him whom she addressed, “I thought—I believed—oh, I never doubted till the hour that I became doubly orphaned—that I was his own child and—and hers!”

She paused for an instant, with her hands tightly clasped over her heart, then went on in lower and more tremulous tones. “But she—my mother—as I must call her still—she told me with her dying breath that—that I was theirs only by adoption.”

Mr. Alden, who had been standing, staggered back and dropped into a chair, looking perfectly astounded.

“Who—who are you then?” he gasped at length.

“I—I do not know, except—”

“Never mind, Floy, my own little wife,” whispered Espy, throwing a protecting arm about her and making her lean on him.

Then turning to his father, he stated the facts as succinctly as possible.

Mr. Alden listened with a grave and troubled air, and, when his son had finished, sat for some moments in silent cogitation.

“Well,” he said at length, “this is a rather bad business; and yet—perhaps not so bad as it looks. Floy, how many are in this secret—about your birth, I mean?”

“Our three selves only,” she answered.

“Good! very good!” he said, rubbing his hands with a complacent smile. “Your sex is not famed for ability to keep secrets, but I’ll trust you for this one.”

She gave him a look of surprised inquiry.

“So long as you are believed to be Mr. Kemper’s own child,” he went on to explain, “no one will dispute your right to the property, and it’s very considerable, Floy—worth taking some pains to secure.”

Her dark eyes opened wide upon him in half-incredulous, indignant surprise, but he gave her no opportunity to speak.

“And it is yours of right, for, as we all know, Mr. Kemper intended it for you, and you will only be fulfilling his wishes in retaining possession, which, as the old saying has it,” he added, with an unpleasant laugh, “is nine points of the law.”