“Yes, they’re splendid! they’re gorgeous! superior to the best: they must be! But what is it Shakespeare says?

“Oh, that’s Grey, mother! But never mind! Come—Floy!” as a lady in front of them turned suddenly round.

“Hetty! you here? and your mother too?” cried Ethel, who had been made aware of their unexpected vicinity by the sound of the words and voices so familiar to her ear two years ago.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Goodenough, “we were just looking at those splendid jewels from New York.”

“We have just come to the city,” said Hetty; “arrived last night; and oh, I am so glad to have met you! for I have something to tell you.”

The eager, animated look and tone said that it was something of importance, and Ethel’s heart gave a wild bound. Was it news that would aid her in her quest?

She drew out her watch. “One o’clock: a good hour for lunch. Come with me to Public Comfort. You must be my guests.”

“Thank you!” and they went with her.

“Are you here alone?” asked Mrs. Goodenough as they crossed the avenue.

“I have often come alone,” returned Ethel, smiling. “A friend was with me this morning; left me half an hour ago, and will meet me half an hour hence at Public Comfort.”

“A very particular friend,” thought Hetty to herself, noticing the light in Ethel’s eye, the deepening of the color on her cheek, as she mentioned him.

She had heard of Espy, knew something of what had been the state of affairs between the lovers.

“My dear, has he come back?” she asked in a delighted whisper.

Ethel’s blush and smile were sufficient to assure her that such was the case, and her kindly, affectionate heart was overjoyed.

They were so fortunate as to find an unoccupied corner in the ladies’ parlor at Public Comfort, seated themselves about a table, ordered their lunch, and while waiting for and eating it did a good deal of talking.

Hetty was the chief speaker. She began the instant they were seated:

“We’ve been to the sea-shore, mother and I, and it’s about some people we saw on the train, as we came up to the city, that I want to tell you, Floy. Such a nice-looking family—father, mother, one son, and two daughters. And the strangest thing is that the mother and the oldest girl look very much like you.”

At these words Ethel’s heart beat so fast and loud it seemed to her they all must hear it, and her hand trembled so that she was obliged to set down the cup she was in the act of lifting to her lips.

Hetty saw her agitation, and made haste with her story.

“The girl looked about fifteen. The mother, I should say, might be anywhere between thirty and forty, and very handsome; has the sweetest face! Her husband, a noble-looking man, watched over and waited on her as if it were the greatest pleasure in life to do so—with a sort of pitying tenderness, so it seemed to me. And I saw her give him such a look once, as if she thought he was—well, as mother says, ‘superior to the best.’ But when she was not speaking or listening to him there would come a far-off look into her eyes, an expression as if she had known some great sorrow, some life-long trial that she had schooled herself to bear with patient resignation.”

“Dear me, Hetty, how much you see that common folks like me would never think of!” put in her mother admiringly as the girl paused for breath.

Ethel, contrary to her usual good manners, made an impatient movement, and Hetty hastily resumed her narrative.

“You see my attention was drawn to her as they came in, for they were a little late, and had some difficulty in finding seats—couldn’t all get together at first; then the resemblance to you, which even mother noticed when I spoke of it to her, and the quick, searching glance she sent round the car—for all the world as you would have done, because you are always looking for your lost mother. She seemed to scan every face, then sat down with, so at least I thought, a weary, disappointed little sigh; and it was then I noticed the pitying tenderness of her husband’s manner. Then the older girl spoke to her, calling her mamma, and I noticed that in her there was a still more striking likeness to you—though only, I think, because she is so much nearer your age.”

Ethel had forgotten to eat or drink; she was trembling with agitation.

“Oh, is that all?” she asked in tones scarcely audible, as Hetty again paused a moment.

“Not quite, dear. The little girl at first sat on her brother’s knee; then a seat was vacated just in front of me, and she took it. I smiled at her, and she smiled back. I was eager to make acquaintance, that I might find out something about them; so presently I leaned over to her and asked if she had been at the sea-shore. She said, ‘Yes, and now we’re going back to the Centennial. We were there a while, but mamma got very tired one day—so tired she and papa couldn’t go in to look at the pictures with Ellis and me, and we went home instead; and we were to go to the picture place the next morning, but mamma was taken very sick in the night, and the doctor said she must go to the sea-shore for a while; so of course we all went.’

“Then she took to questioning me, and telling me about the shells she had picked and the fun she had had in bathing, and what she had seen and expected to see at the Exposition.

“I asked her her name, and she said it was ‘Nan’ something; I couldn’t quite catch the last name, but it was a word of two syllables.

“Then I sat silent a while, racking my brains to think what I could do to find out whether they really were related to you, and had just decided to tell the child that I knew a young lady who strongly resembled her mother and sister, when some persons left the car, and she changed her seat again for one nearer the rest of the family.”

“And that is all?” Ethel said, drawing a long, sighing breath as Hetty ceased.

“Yes, dear, all,” Hetty answered regretfully, laying her hand tenderly on her friend’s arm. “I wish for your sake there was something more—something certain.”

For a moment Ethel hid her face in her hands; then taking them away, turned toward Hetty, pale, tearful, but with the light of hope shining in her eyes.

“It was my mother,” she whispered. “Something tells me so, and that I shall find her—we shall find each other at last.”

A young man had stepped upon the threshold of the outer door, and was sending a hurried glance about the now crowded room. His eye lighted up as it fell upon Ethel’s graceful figure and fair face, of which he could get but a partial view from where he stood.

In another instant she rose and turned toward him. Their eyes met, she nodded and smiled, said a few words to her companions, then made her way through the throng to his side as he stepped back upon the porch, the other two following.

Arrived in his vicinity, she introduced Mr. Alden to Mrs. and Miss Goodenough. A shaking of hands and exchange of a few commonplace sentences followed, and the four separated, Hetty and her mother returning to the Main Building, while Ethel and Espy sauntered side by side along the avenue in the direction of Memorial Hall, passing it and going some distance beyond.

Although thousands of people were wandering about the houses and grounds, this spacious thoroughfare was not so crowded that they could not with ease keep to themselves and carry on a private conversation without danger of being overheard.

In a few moments Espy had learned from Ethel all that Hetty had had to tell of her fellow-passengers of the previous day.

His interest and excitement were only second to Ethel’s, and he shared both her conviction and her presentiment.

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “it is your mother! I seem somehow to feel that it must be so; and now the question is how to bring you together.”

“Yes,” sighed Ethel, “we might all be here every day while the Exhibition lasts, yet never meet. But no, I will not fear it! I will trust in God, who hath helped me hitherto,” she added, smiling brightly through gathering tears.

Espy regarded her with admiring, loving eyes.

“That is right!” he said cheerfully, “and I feel sure your faith will be rewarded. You are looking tired; let us sit down here and rest while we talk it over.”

He had led her into a side path, and to a bench that stood in the shade of a wide-spreading tree.

“It may sound conceited,” he said, “but I do believe that my pictures are now to play a conspicuous part in the drama and do you good service—as truly they ought, being mine, and I your humble slave,” he added sportively, seeking to win her from anxiety and care.

She smiled, but sadly still, as she made answer: “I hope they may; but how is it to be managed? It is with them as with the rest of the Exposition—we and those we seek may visit them again and again, yet never at the same time.”

He mused a moment.

“They would perhaps think of inquiring for the artist in case your mother recognizes the likenesses, as I do feel pretty confident she will, at least if she has a good memory for faces; for surely Mrs. Kemper’s, and yours as a baby, would be likely to be strongly impressed upon it. And we must go there very often, singly or together.”

“And trust to Providence to bring us there at the right moment,” she added thoughtfully.

A moment of silent musing on the part of both, and Ethel suddenly sprang to her feet.

“I will go there now—this moment!”

“And may I go with you?”

“Yes, yes; come!” and she started almost on a run.

“Floy, Floy, not quite so fast!” he said, exerting himself to keep pace with her. “You will be all out of breath, and have no strength to push through the crowd.”

She slackened her speed and took his offered arm.

“Yes, you are right; I shall have need of all my strength. But oh, if I should be a moment too late!”

“Try to be calm, dear Floy,” he said low and tenderly, gazing down upon the agitated face in loving solicitude. “You have been very brave and hopeful thus far, and are, I trust, soon to be rewarded for it all. But try to be calm and collected. You will need to have full command of yourself.”

“I will try,” she answered with a deep-drawn sigh; “and oh, I am glad and thankful that I have you with me, Espy!”

“Bless you, darling, for the words!” he said, flushing with pleasure. “To be a comfort and support to you has long been the dearest wish of my heart.”

He led her on in the direction from which they had come at a rapid but steady pace, watching anxiously the while the changes in her speaking countenance. He was relieved to see a calm, peaceful, quiet look presently take the place of the painful agitation visible there a moment before.

He knew not the cause, but she had fled to the Rock that was higher than she. Whatever might befall, this Refuge could not fail, this Friend would never forsake.

While Ethel had sat listening with absorbing interest to Hetty’s story the persons of whom they spoke were in Horticultural Hall, which they left at nearly the same time that the first party separated and went their several ways.

“Memorial Hall comes next on our programme, does it not, wife?” said the older gentleman as they descended the steps of the main entrance.

“Yes,” she said, “but let us walk about here a little first; the sun is under a cloud at this moment, and these parterres and rustic seats are worth looking at.”

“They are lovely, mamma,” said the older girl; “but I’ve seen them several times, and I want to buy some little things at the Japanese Bazaar. So may I go on? and I’ll meet you in the avenue near the Art Building.”

Permission was given, and she tripped away. The others soon followed. Presently she came running breathlessly to meet them.

“Papa, mamma, I’ve had an adventure! An elderly gentleman rushed up to me, holding out his hand in the most cordial manner and looking as pleased as if he had just come upon his best friend after a long separation. ‘Why, Floy, my dear child, I am delighted to see you!’ he said, but I of course drew back and told him as politely as I could that he had made a mistake; that was not my name, and I was quite sure we had never met before. Then he grew very red in the face, and stammered out an apology. He had taken me for a young lady he used to know very well indeed, but hadn’t seen for two or three years; hoped I would excuse him, but really the resemblance was wonderful.”

“A mere pretence, you may depend!” cried her brother angrily. “And, Dora, you are not to go alone into a crowd again; you are quite too young and pretty.”

But the mother appeared strangely agitated. “Oh, my child, where is he?” she cried, trembling and turning pale. “Oh, if I had but seen him! Which way did he go? could you point him out to your father or me?”

“I think I should recognize him if I met him again,” the girl answered in surprise, “but I do not at all know where he went. But why, mamma, why should you wish to see him?”

The mother did not answer, did not seem to have heard the question. She was leaning heavily upon her husband’s arm for support, while he bent over her with low-breathed words of comfort and hope.

“Dear wife, bear up! What is this but another gleam of light for you?”

“Hush, Dora,” whispered the lad, drawing his sister aside. “Can you not guess? have you forgotten our mother’s quest—her life-long sorrow?”

“Oh, Ellis! to be sure! How could I be so stupid! Oh, why didn’t I think to detain and question the man? But, Ellis, it wasn’t the right name.”

“No; but what is easier than to change a name?”

“Yes, yes, that is true! Poor mamma! poor dear mamma! She will never rest; she cannot, till she finds her or knows that she is no more.”

“She has such a loving mother-heart,” said Ellis, “and she will blame herself, though I’m sure she has no reason.”

“What are you talking about?” asked little Nan, coming skipping back from an erratic excursion into one of the side paths. “Oh, Dora! did you get me that necklace?”

“Yes, little puss, I have it safe here in my bag.”

“Let me carry that; I did not notice that you had it,” Ellis said, taking the satchel.

He was invariably as politely attentive to his mother and sisters as to any other ladies.

The parents were moving slowly forward, the mother having recovered her accustomed calm, quiet manner, and the young people had fallen slightly into the rear. Another moment, and they were all passing up the broad marble steps leading into Memorial Hall.

They had hardly disappeared within the portal, when Espy and Ethel might have been seen traversing the avenue in the same direction.

Indifferent as to which part of the building received their first attention, the foremost party turned, as it were by a mere chance, into that appropriated to the exhibition of native talent. They moved slowly along, the parents still in advance, pausing as others were doing, now here, now there, as one painting or another drew their attention.

Suddenly the lady grasped her husband’s arm, a low, half-stifled cry escaping her lips. Was it joy? Was it anguish? It seemed a mingling of both.

“What is it, wife?” he asked in a startled tone, and throwing the other arm around her, for she seemed about to faint.

“Look, look!” she said, pointing to Espy’s picture of the child, beneath which they were standing. “It is—it is my baby! my little Ethel! my lost darling!” she sobbed half inarticulately, gazing at it with streaming eyes.

“Ha!” cried her husband, “is it possible! My darling, are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, it is she! Could a mother’s eyes be deceived? Can a mother’s heart forget? And the woman—the one who took her from me! That is her face. I remember perfectly every lineament. Oh, Rolfe, Rolfe, it is my lost baby! And there,” pointing to the companion picture, “there she is, grown to womanhood! Is not this a clue?”

“Yes, yes; the artist—we must find him.”

Their tones had not been loud, yet, in connection with the lady’s evident agitation, had attracted some notice, and a younger pair had hurriedly pushed their way toward them, coming up so close in their rear as to catch the last two or three sentences.

“I am the artist,” said Espy, “and this,” glancing at Ethel as the others turned quickly at the sound of his voice, “is the original of those two—”

“Your name? your name?” gasped the lady, gazing eagerly, longingly, into the pale, excited face of the girl.

“Is Ethel Farnese. My mother’s was the same; and she, a widow, poor, dying as she believed, gave me to that woman—Mrs. Kemper.”

“I knew it! I knew it! My child! my long-lost child!” and instantly they were locked in each other’s arms, Ethel sobbing:

“Mother, mother! my own darling mother!”