Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Letty came out to Sunnycrest on the following Monday, as they had been invited to do, and every one spent a happy week. Letty was radiant to meet again some one who had seen and known her mother, and urged Mrs. Baker, Jr., to tell Mrs. Hartwell-Jones everything she could remember about the sweet, sad-faced gentlewoman who had trained her little daughter so carefully and lovingly.

There were long, long talks among the grown-ups, and both grandmother and the mother of the twins were confident that Mrs. Hartwell-Jones had done wisely in making Letty her own little girl.

Letty had asked permission to renew only one tie of her past life.

“You have told Mrs. Drake already,” she said to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, “and I should like all my other friends to know, if I could reach them. There was dear Miss Reese. She was so good to me and my mother one winter, and then I never heard from her again, nor her cousin, Clara Markham. Indeed, I’ve even forgotten what Miss Reese’s married name is. I have always thought of her as Miss Reese.

“Then there was Mrs. Goldberg at Willow Grove. She was awfully good-hearted although she was so fat and homely and dressed so badly. But she and Mr. Goldberg went out to California just before—before my mother died. Mr. Goldberg wanted Ben to go out to California with him, but Ben couldn’t leave mother and me. Perhaps if he had gone——” Letty stopped and her eyes filled with tears. “Perhaps that horrible accident wouldn’t have happened!”

“Hush, dear Letty—dear little girl,” whispered Mrs. Hartwell-Jones tenderly. “An accident is always likely to happen in such a life—so filled with risks and dangers. And think how very much more terrible it would have been if it had happened far off—away from you.”

Letty was soon comforted and dried her eyes with a little sigh.

“But there is one person I can tell my happiness to,” she said after rather a long silence, “if I may? It is Emma Haines, the little girl I told you about that lived next door when we had rooms in South Front Street. I should so like her to know! May I write to her? She lives in New Jersey now, she and her mother and Tottie. Such a cunning baby Tottie was.”

“By all means write to her at once,” consented Mrs. Hartwell-Jones cordially. “And when we get settled at home in town, you may invite her over to see you, if you like.”

Letty would have liked to take Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s “at once” literally. Indeed, she had already jumped up from her stool and crossed to the writing-desk, when Christopher appeared at the open door and beckoned to her eagerly. The little conversation had taken place in Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s room at Sunnycrest, and Christopher’s interruption was not a surprise, as the twins gave Letty very little time to herself.

After Letty had run off to join the children, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones sat lost in thought, considering seriously an idea that had come to her that morning, suggested by the letter she had received from her lawyer. Presently she went to consult Grandmother Baker, as she generally did upon nearly all matters nowadays. She found her in her own room, going over the week’s mending.

“Mrs. Baker, I am thinking of taking a short journey,” she began. “But you are busy, I see. I am afraid I shall disturb you.”

Grandmother hastened to assure her that she was not interrupting.

“Indeed, it will help me very much to be talked to,” she replied. “It will help me to keep my mind off the terrific size of the holes in Kit’s stockings. Just look at this!” And she held up a long brown stocking with a great gaping tear in the knee. “You say you think of taking a short journey,” she exclaimed in surprise. “You don’t think of leaving us before the end of your visit, I hope?” she added anxiously.

“Only for two days, if you will excuse us. I think of taking Letty with me. But I would like your opinion; whether you think it would please and interest Letty, or only distress her with sad memories.”

Mrs. Baker looked up curiously.

“I am thinking of going down to Philadelphia for a day,” explained Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. “There are certain records that my lawyer wishes to look up, concerning Letty’s baptism and the exact date of her father’s death. I should like, too, to call on the minister, if we can find him, in whose parish Mrs. Grey lived at that time.

“And I thought possibly it might interest Letty to revisit some of the places where she used to live. Or do you think it might rouse sad memories in the child’s heart and make her unhappy? Do you think it would be a hard experience?”

“It might sadden the dear child a bit for the moment,” answered grandmother; “but the sadness cannot last long, remembering what the future holds for her, and I think it would be very good for her, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, to go over the old scenes and impress them upon her mind, since her life from now on is to be so very different.”

“I am glad you agree with me, Mrs. Baker. Then, since that is settled, will it interfere with your plans in any way to have us go tomorrow?”

Mrs. Baker smiled.

“Not with me, dear Mrs. Hartwell-Jones. Choose your own time and convenience. But I am afraid the children will raise a very dreadful outcry.”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones smiled too, in recollection of all the mysterious whisperings and private interviews that had been going on among the children.

“I think they can spare Letty for two days,” she laughed. “We shall be back the day after, you know.”

Letty received the news of the proposed journey with mingled feelings. How odd it would seem to go back to Philadelphia, to revive the scenes and memories of the old life, which seemed gone forever.

Letty was afraid it might make her unhappy to visit again the places where she had lived with her dear, dear mother. She said nothing of all this to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, and tried her best not to let her see that she felt it, but entered into plans very eagerly and drove Punch and Judy into the village after the noonday dinner to get time-tables.

It was discovered that the only convenient train to Philadelphia passed through Hammersmith in the afternoon, not reaching Philadelphia until after dark. And the return trip must be taken even later in the day.

“Of course we can do nothing the evening we reach there,” said Mrs. Hartwell-Jones, “but it will give us nearly a whole day before starting back, which is all the time I shall need.

“But we shall arrive at Hammersmith very late in the evening, Mr. Baker,” she added. “Don’t you think it would be better for Letty and me to stop overnight at our own rooms in the village? It will take Joshua and the horses out so late, to come to meet us.”

“Indeed, no. Josh won’t mind a little evening jaunt. We may all come, for the matter of that, for the sake of a moonlight ride.”

And so Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Letty started off. It was all very strange and odd to Letty. She could not get used to the parlor-car. She had traveled a good deal in her time, during her three years with Mr. Drake’s circus, but never, of course, in such comfort and luxury. It was like living in a different world.

Philadelphia, too, was like a completely different city. It was quite dark when they arrived and the confusion and brilliance of the big, busy station quite overwhelmed Letty. The streets were totally unfamiliar. She had been in that part of the city very seldom and never at night. The comfort and delightful motion of the taxicab charmed her and she became completely absorbed in watching the register, illumined by a tiny electric light.

“What does it make you think of, dear?” asked Mrs. Hartwell-Jones as the taxicab was steered smoothly and dexterously in and out of the stream of traffic.

“Oh, I don’t know. It is all so mysterious, this going along and along without anything to take us,” replied Letty. “But then, after all, it isn’t so very different from a trolley-car, is it, except that there are no tracks. Ah, the thing has dropped again! What do you suppose makes it? You say the man does not push it,” and she studied the metre with puzzled eyes.

The ride was very short and the hotel at which they stopped very magnificent. A meal was served to them in their own room, for it was too late to dress and go down-stairs to the restaurant; and after it was over, Letty spent the hour until bedtime at the open window, watching the rushing stream of people pour by below, in carriages or motors and on foot, ascending or descending from trolley-cars and entering or leaving the big hotel. All the while she asked herself over and over:

“Is this Philadelphia? Is this really Philadelphia where I used to live?”

Her sense of strangeness and bewilderment did not leave her next morning, for Mr. Shoemaker, Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s lawyer, having come over from New York by appointment to join them, the three took another taxicab and drove out to West Philadelphia. This part of the city was even stranger to Letty than the portion about the station, for she had been only a baby, too young to remember any impressions, when her mother, Ben and she had moved down-town; and she had never revisited that part of the city at all.

She did not understand exactly what was the errand upon which Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and the lawyer were bent, and while they consulted huge books and parish registers, she wandered about the yard of the big college where her father had been a teacher, looking up at the high buildings with their rows and rows of windows, and thinking how jolly it must be to be a boy and go to college.

“But there are girls’ colleges, too,” she reflected. “Perhaps Mrs. Hartwell-Jones will let me go to one when I am old enough—or know enough. Oh, dear, I am sorry I am so far behind other girls in my classes. I mean to work terribly hard. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones has helped me a lot this summer and perhaps it won’t matter so much, my being behind, at a private school.”

When Mrs. Hartwell-Jones and Mr. Shoemaker joined Letty, a kind-faced old clergyman accompanied them, who patted Letty on the cheek and exclaimed:

“Bless me, is this the baby? How time does fly, to be sure. You are a fortunate little lady, Letitia. Good-morning, all of you.”

After luncheon at the hotel, Mr. Shoemaker talked business with Mrs. Hartwell-Jones for half an hour or so, then departed again for New York. Mrs. Hartwell-Jones ordered still another taxicab.

“We have over two hours before our train leaves, dear, and so suppose we drive about to the different places you know about. Would you like to? Do you remember the street and number where your Miss Reese used to live?”

Letty gave the address, which was quite near by, and as they drove past the house she related again, with eager interest, the exciting tale of the fire. Then they were driven down Chestnut Street and Letty’s eyes shone as they passed the shops she recollected having visited with Miss Reese on the memorable Christmas shopping expedition.

“Is this where you had your first taste of ice-cream soda-water?” asked Mrs. Hartwell-Jones as the cab stopped in front of a large candy shop. “Then we must have some now, for old times’ sake. And let us take a box of candy back to the twins.”

They did a good deal of shopping, of one sort or another, and then Mrs. Hartwell-Jones gave the chauffeur a direction that made him stare. It brought the tears to Letty’s eyes suddenly and a great lump to her throat.

Far down-town they drove, out of the range of stylishly equipped carriages and motor cars; out of the range of big shops and smooth streets. The pavement grew rougher and dirtier, the houses and small shops that lined the street, shabbier and shabbier.

Letty leaned forward out of the carriage window, her eyes large, curious, almost frightened, fixed on each familiar spot as it was passed. She clasped her hands tightly together and drew her breath in short, audible inspirations.

“Ah, there is the house, there it is!” she exclaimed at length, and Mrs. Hartwell-Jones gave the signal to stop.

The cab came to a halt at the curb, the motor continuing to throb with an even, businesslike regularity.

The little motor inside Letty’s small body was throbbing too, wildly, now fast and now slow, as she gazed at the shabby, dingy house that had been her home. It looked shabbier and dingier than ever, and there were neither fresh muslin curtains nor blooming plants at the third-story front windows where her mother used to sit and sew.

No familiar faces were to be seen. Several people went in and out of the front door, turning to stare curiously at the lady and little girl sitting in the motor car. But Letty had never seen any of them before. There were children playing on the door-step next door, but they were not Emma Haines nor Tottie. It all seemed completely changed.

“Oh, dear!” sighed Letty.

Then she turned and threw herself into Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s outstretched arms.

“My mother, my mother!” she sobbed. “How I want my mother!”

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones soothed her as best she could, wondering the while if she had done wrong to bring back the old associations.

“I know it is hard, dear little girl,” she whispered, “but I think some day you will be glad we came. It will help to fix the picture in your mind. It keeps our memories fresher and more precious, you know, if we have the pictures of their surroundings clearly in our mind.

“Take one last look, dear, and then we shall go. I pray I may be able to keep you as good and happy as your dear mother did, my precious little Letty!”

The cab moved slowly, with increasing speed, away from the dingy street, back to the gay, prosperous part of the city; back to the life that was to be Letty’s henceforth.

The child’s sobs soon ceased and she drew back from the comforting shoulder. But she still clung to Mrs. Hartwell-Jones’s hand for solace, and there were tears in the brown eyes that tried bravely to smile.

“You are so good to me!” she exclaimed. “My mother would be so grateful to you if she knew!”

“She does know, up in heaven. I am sure she does, Letty, dear. And we shall both do our best to keep good and happy, shall we not? for that would please her best.

“And Letty dear, while we are on the subject, may I speak about something else regarding you and me? What do you want to call me, child? Have you thought about it at all? You know you can’t go on calling me Mrs. Hartwell-Jones,” she added with a little laugh, to aid Letty’s embarrassment. “How would ‘Aunt Mary’ do?”

Letty looked up shyly.

“I think that would be perfectly beautiful!” she ejaculated with a happy sigh. “If it is what you would like?” she added hastily.

Mrs. Hartwell-Jones would have liked a sweeter, more intimate title, but she guessed that Letty would find it too hard to confer the beloved name of mother upon any one else; so she accepted the other and they were both satisfied and contented.

“‘Aunt Mary,’” whispered Letty again and again. “It is a beautiful name and just like yourself, Mrs. Hart—I mean Aunt Mary,” she added tremulously.