As Nathalie sat in dazed surprise upon hearing Philip’s announcement, he went on and told her of the early life of his father, of his going to Europe, of his marriage with Marie de Brie, a French girl, of his return to America, and of his subsequent quarrel with his mother, who had refused to receive his wife, a story that the girl had already heard, but not in detail, from Mrs. Page.

When his father left his grandmother, Philip stated, he was in a mood of mingled anger and humiliation, while his heart had been deeply seared with disillusioned love. He could not realize that the mother who had made him her idol, the mother whom he adored, could, from mere motives of false pride, wound him so deeply by refusing to receive the girl to whom he had given the affections of his young manhood.

On leaving his mother, Philip Renwick had remained at the hotel for a time, vainly hoping that she would attempt a reconciliation, but when no word came from her, he took his wife to a southern town, where, a few months later, he, Philip the second, had been born. A couple of years later the young couple had returned to England, where they had lived until his father’s death. Shortly after losing her husband, young Mrs. Renwick had returned to France, and had become the home-keeper for a bachelor brother. On his death she was left a small annuity on the condition that she retain her maiden name of de Brie; hence the reason that Philip had become known by his mother’s maiden name.

“But did you know that it was here, at Seven Pillars, that your grandmother used to live?” asked Nathalie, as Philip finished.

“Yes, and that was why I felt that I could not refuse your mother’s kind invitation to spend a short time here as her guest, for the house had so many associations for me, for my father, as well as my grandmother, were very fond of this old place up here in these mountains.

“The night you found me in the cabin, Miss Nathalie,” resumed the young man, “I had become tired of life, for it seemed as if there was nothing for me to live for, for I hadn’t enough ambition to try to better my condition. I could only face the fact that mother was gone, that I had not a cent in the world, as my mother’s annuity ceased with her life, and my soldier’s pension was only a few dollars a week. I realized that I would probably lose my arm, for I knew that it should have a surgeon’s care and I had no money to pay one. And it is right here, Miss Nathalie, that I want you to understand my deep appreciation of, and my hearty thanks for, what you have done for me; also the kindness of Miss Janet,” a sudden light flamed in the young man’s eyes, “and the thoughtfulness of your mother, and your friends, Mrs. Van Vorst and Miss Nita.

“The companionship of you all, even of the kiddies, your Liberty boys, has put new life into me. I did become a little discouraged, it is true, when I began to lose my French pupils, and surmised the reason, from various hints that were dropped by some of the people, who were the victims of the thief, for it is not an enlivening thought to fear that your only and very best friends might grow to think you a rascal.

“But you all proved so true to me, especially you, little Blue Robin, I call you that name, as the bluebird is a bird of cheer, and certainly you have inspired me with the ambition for a new career-to-be, as you have proved yourself such a loyal little comrade in my time of need. Remember, Nathalie, I shall never forget you, or what you have done for me.”

Nathalie, her face a wave of color from the unexpected warmth of Philip’s praise, in hasty confusion, as if to change the subject to another one than herself, cried, “But why did you not go, when you were in Boston, to Mrs. Renwick’s trustees, and make yourself known to them? For, if you are her grandson, you are entitled to some of her money.”

“For two reasons,” replied Philip slowly. “One was that, in my hasty departure from England it slipped my mind to bring my credentials with me. And then, again,—perhaps my grandmother’s pride has descended to me,—I felt that if she did not love my father,—she had let him go so easily,—that I could have pride, too, and did not care to accept her money. If I could have met her when alive, and had learned that she did have some love for my father, why, then I would have revealed myself to her, and naturally would have felt differently in regard to accepting her money. But I have one thing by which I could have proved my identity to her if she had been still alive. See, it is this little ring. She gave it to my father, who always wore it, as I have done, ever since it came into my possession.”

Philip took from one of his little fingers an odd, peculiar-looking seal ring. After showing his father’s and his grandmother’s initials and the date of its presentation, he touched a tiny spring back of the stone, and Nathalie saw a miniature picture of Mrs. Renwick. She knew it immediately from its resemblance to several pictures of her that were scattered about the house.

At this moment there was a loud wail from Sheila, who, in picking flowers in the meadow where Sam was mowing, had been injured by the mower. It was some time before her cries were stilled, and her wound properly bandaged, so that, for the time being, the wonderful news that Philip had told was forgotten.

When it finally came to mind, Nathalie was tempted to run and claim him as her cousin, to tell him about Mrs. Renwick’s peculiar letter, and what was expected to take place there that afternoon. But after some thought she wisely concluded to remain silent until after she had talked with Mr. Banker and her mother. Not but that she had faith in Philip’s story, but because it seemed the most prudent thing to do.

These thoughts were hasty ones, for the girl had suddenly remembered that she had not selected the valuable thing as yet, and that it was almost four o’clock, the hour of Mr. Banker’s arrival. She had partly decided to select a set of rubies,—a necklace and pair of bracelets,—and then a Russian curio had made its appeal, but somehow she bordered upon a state of indecision that was becoming intolerable.

As she turned to enter the house, her eyes fell on the little Bible that, in her hasty rush to Sheila, when she appeared with her bleeding foot, she had left lying on the chair under the trees. She ran hastily across the lawn and picked it up. As she did so, the book flew open and her attention was arrested by the name, Philip Renwick, on the fly-leaf, and its connection with what Philip had just told her. And then, she stood a minute, pondering. Why had not she thought of that before? and then, with a dimpling face, she closed the book and hurried back to the veranda, almost knocking down Tony, who stood wistfully regarding her.

“Pleass, scusa, Mees Natta, haf you gotta da theeng for de preez?—Mister Banka, hees com’ bimeby to looka for eet.” Tony’s big, velvety eyes were mutely pleading as he looked up at Nathalie.

The girl laughingly mimicked the boy as she patted him on the head, understanding that he was worried because she had not selected the thing that the children were so anxious should “win the prize,” as they called it, for her. Then her eyes sobered, and, drawing the little lad to her, she showed him the Bible she held in her hand, explaining that she had selected it, as it told about Christ the Savior, and contained God’s wonderful message to His people, telling them how to love Him and be good. “Yes, Tony,” she added solemnly, “the Bible is the most precious thing to everybody in the world. And then, as this little Bible used to belong to Mrs. Renwick’s only son, I am sure that it would be the most valuable thing to her, so I am going to select it.”

As the girl saw the child’s eyes light up, as if he comprehended what she meant, she laid the Bible on a chair and ran hastily up to her room to hunt for some white paper and blue ribbon. In a moment or so she was back, wrapping up the book, and then, to Tony’s infinite delight, she slipped her card under the blue ribbon and gave the book to him, to place at the door of the mystery-room with the other packages.

Some time later, Nathalie, in company with her mother, Janet, Cynthia, and Mr. Banker, entered the mystery-room, no one perceiving as they entered that the children had slyly followed them, and were staring about with wondering, curious eyes. Ah, so this was the room they had all been so curious about; and Nathalie smiled as she saw that it was a homey, cozy room, suggestive of feminine tastes and occupations, but, after all, it was just nothing but Mrs. Renwick’s sitting-room, the room where she had sewed, read, and wrote her letters.

The low book-cases lining the wall, the hardwood floor with its costly Persian rug, the open fireplace set with fagots ready to light on a cool morning, the desk in one corner, with the Victrola near, and the antique furniture, all of solid mahogany, certainly did not savor of a mystery or anything uncanny. In fact, the little table in the center of the room, with its shaded lamp, books, and magazines, and the little upright work-basket near, rather intimated that the owner of the room had just left it for a moment or so.

But Mr. Banker was speaking. He stood by the little center-table on which lay the three valuable things. He held up Cynthia’s selection as he said: “I have here a picture, a most valuable painting, as it is a Van Dyke. It has been selected by Miss Cynthia Loretto Stillwell, as I see by the name on the card. This little box bears the name of Miss Janet Page, and is a curio from China. And here is a Bible,” the gentleman’s voice deepened as he held up Nathalie’s selection. The girl’s heart, notwithstanding her indifference to the outcome of the selection, was beating against her side in a very annoying way.

“It is a curious selection,” continued Mr. Banker, “and—oh, what is this?” as something round and glittering fell from the book. “A gold coin,” he commented with some surprise; “yes, a Roman coin, for it bears the head of CÆsar, and I should imagine he turned the coin over as it lay in his palm, that it was of considerable value, as, from what I can decipher between the obliterations, it has a very ancient date. But I do not understand,” he glanced inquiringly, “which is the article that has been selected as the valuable thing, the coin or the Bible? The card on the letter bears the name of Nathalie Page,” turning as he spoke, and looking at the girl, who was staring at him, with mystified, bewildered eye, “A coin!” she finally managed to gasp. “Why, I didn’t see—”

“Pleass ’scusa. Mister Banka,” cried Tony’s soft, musical voice at this point, “da coin eet belona to Mees Natta,—she fina eet wan day een a box.” The liquid black eyes of the boy were brilliant with a strange glow of joy. “Oh, no, Tonio, the coin is not Miss Natta’s,” cried Nathalie, a sudden light breaking in upon her bewilderment. “It is your coin. Don’t you remember, I found it in the mustard-box the day you were ill? But it is yours, Tony; you placed it there for Miss Natta to find.” The girl, strangely amused, smiled down at the lad.

“You bet my life, Mees Natta, Tonio, no, hees neva hada coin. Eet verra old, da coin, eet com’ f’om a beeg keeng wat liva een da Roma lan’. Ees belonga to Mees Natta,” the boy ended persistently.

“Oh, Tony, you are in the wrong,” pleaded the girl, suddenly feeling that she wanted to cry, as she saw that the child was determined to persist in his untruth. “You know it is your coin, for Danny found it one day for you when it had dropped from your embroidered vest. Didn’t you, Danny?”

And Danny, with a troubled look in his blue eyes,—he, too, wanted Miss Natta to have that prize,—mutely nodded in confirmation of her word. But Tony, with a sudden tightening of his red lips, again protested in a sullen tone, “No, eet ees no Tonio’s coin. Eet belona to Mees Natta.”

“Oh, Tony,” exclaimed the girl, as the tears swelled up into her eyes, “you hurt ‘Mees Natta.’ ‘Mees Natta’ rather not have the prize than have Tonio tell what is not so.”

Tony’s eyes fell, as he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, and then, glancing up, still with that stubborn look on his face, and seeing the tears in the girl’s eyes, he dropped his face into the curve of his arm. Not a sound came from him, but the long, convulsive shivers of the slim little body told that the lad was crying.

Nathalie turned towards Mr. Banker, distress depicted on her face, as she cried, “Oh, Mr. Banker, I am so sorry, but I selected the Bible.”

Mr. Banker hesitated a moment, and then his sharp eyes softened, as he saw the mute anguish of the little Italian lad and realized his keen disappointment, for he had often commented upon the boy’s affection for the girl. Stepping to his side, he patted him on the head, as he said cheerily: “Never mind, son; don’t cry. Who knows, perhaps ‘Mees Natta’ may win the prize, as you call it, even without the coin. Here, lad, take what belongs to you, and mind you,” he added in a sterner tone, “never again be tempted to tell an untruth, even for ‘Mees Natta.’” With another pat on the bowed head he stepped back beside the table, where he had been standing.

“I have gone over these diaries,” said the gentleman, as he picked up one of the three books that lay on the table, “and I find that Miss Cynthia Loretto Stillwell has not passed a day in this house, within the last two months in which she has not searched for the valuable thing. Certainly her diligence should be rewarded,” ended the gentleman, as he bowed ceremoniously to that lady, whose eyes radiated with triumphant joy.

“Miss Janet, I find,” his eyes gleamed pleasantly at that winsome young woman, “has been somewhat of a delinquent at times, for there are several entries missing in her diary. But as its reading shows that her heart is a kindly one, as shown by her careful nursing of the young British soldier, I certainly think that she should be well favored.

“Miss Nathalie, I am afraid, has not done her duty as faithfully as she might have, in looking for the valuable thing”; he spoke somewhat severely as he peered over his glasses at the girl, whose cheeks flushed, their red deepening, as she caught a gleam of satisfaction emanating from Cynthia’s eyes.

“But her negligence has been more than compensated for,”—there was a queer note in the gentleman’s voice, “as this record of two months is so filled with kind acts for others, that— Well, ladies, possibly you have begun to sense that it is not the finding of the valuable thing that is to win out, but the acts it typifies. Each day has been conscientiously noted in Miss Nathalie’s diary, and almost every day bears a record of some good work done for others. I think—well—I am inclined to believe that the young lady—”

Mr. Banker paused abruptly, for at this moment a loud knocking sounded on the door. Cynthia, who was standing near it, with a frown on her face, stepped impatiently forward, and with a hasty movement threw it open.

On the threshold stood Mrs. Carney, who, the next moment, with her sharp gray eyes peering defiantly out from under the queer poke-bonnet, while the basket on her arm stuck out aggressively, brushed quickly past Cynthia and into the room. But that lady, with two red spots on her cheeks, seized her by the arm, crying, “You can’t come in here now; we have company,” turning the old lady, as she spoke, and roughly shoving her towards the door.

“Oh, Cynthia, don’t be rude to Mrs. Carney!” pleaded distressed Nathalie, as she sprang to the side of her queer little friend. “How are you, Mrs. Carney?” she asked gently, smiling at the face under the bonnet. “We are very glad to see you. You don’t mind Mrs. Carney joining us, do you?” continued the girl, looking at Mr. Banker. “If you do,” she added quickly, “and will excuse me, I will go down-stairs with her, so we can have a little chat.”

“No, Miss Nathalie, we do not mind Mrs. Carney joining us; in fact,” again that queer little note in Mr. Banker’s voice, “I was just about to ask you to go and bring her here.” He advanced as he spoke and cordially shook the hand of the old lady, who pressed his warmly, but said nothing.

“Ah, here is your favorite seat,” continued the gentleman; “perhaps you would like to sit down in it. But I forgot, ladies; perhaps you have not met Mrs. John Renwick,” he had turned towards the occupants of the room smilingly, “the lady who has allowed you the privilege of summering in her house for the last two months, your neighbor of the little red house. As you see, Mrs. Renwick is alive, and I will ask her to take charge of her own letter of instruction, and see that the reward is given to the right one—and—”

The gentleman paused, for Mrs. Page, with a glad light in her eyes, was already at the lady’s side, crying, “Oh, sister Mary, it was kind of you to take this way of giving us such a lovely summer. And I am so glad that you are alive and well.” She kissed Mrs. Renwick with warm cordiality. “Do you know,” she continued smilingly, “I was rather suspicious that you were up to one of your—”

“Eccentricities,” interrupted the old lady pleasantly, with an odd twinkle in her eyes. “Well, I was anxious to know these young ladies. Yes, I guess I know them now, one of them at least.” She glanced wrathfully at Cynthia, who stood with down-cast eyes, her face as crimson as a poppy, and her heart in a strange tumult of amazement, anger, and regret.

But Nathalie, in her quick, impulsive way, had thrown her arms around Mrs. Renwick’s neck and was giving her a good hug, as she cried, “Oh! my dear little lady of the red house, I am so glad you are Aunt Mary, for now you will have to be my friend, and answer my letters whether you want to or not.”

The old lady’s gray eyes softened, as she bent forward and kissed the girl softly on each cheek as she answered gently, “Nathalie, you are just like your father,—he was my favorite brother,—but it is for yourself, child,” she added gravely, “that I have learned to love you. But who has won the prize?” she inquired abruptly, smiling down at the children who were staring at her uncomprehendingly, recognizing her as the inmate of the red house, who seemed to have suddenly assumed a new character.

“Come over here and look them over,—I mean the valuable things,” advised Mr. Banker, at this moment, as he led Mrs. Renwick to the table, “for the diaries you saw last night.” And then he pointed out in quick succession the three articles of value that were grouped on the table.

Mrs. Renwick glanced carelessly at the picture. “Yes, it is most valuable,” she assented quietly, “a Van Dyke. And so is this”; she fingered Janet’s choice. “But what is this?” she added suddenly, as her eyes fell on the little Bible that lay at her elbow.

“This is Philip’s Bible,” said the gentleman, “and it was selected by Miss Nathalie—”

“Why, Nathalie, my child, did you select my dear son’s Bible?” As Nathalie mutely assented, Mrs. Renwick motioned for her to come and tell her why she had made this choice. With some embarrassment the girl gave her reasons. As she finished, her aunt said: “Yes, my dear child, there is nothing in the house I value as highly as Philip’s Bible. Nathalie, you have won the prize, and you deserve it, my dear, for you have not only selected the most valuable thing, but you have learned what is the most valuable thing in life.” The old lady drew Nathalie close to her, as she again kissed her on both of her flushed cheeks.

But Nathalie drew quickly away, for a sudden thought had come to her. “Oh, wait a moment!” she exclaimed hurriedly. “I’ll be back presently,” and then, without waiting to be excused, she flew from the room.

“Oh, Philip!” screamed the girl a moment or so later, as she rushed up to her friend, who was reading in the hammock, “I want you to come with me—quick! Oh—I—” she paused as if at a loss to explain, and then added hurriedly, “Oh, do come! I have something to show you!”

Philip looked up at the girl in surprise, but, instantly perceiving from her bright, shining eyes, that she was more than usually excited, he jumped from the hammock crying, “All right, Blue Robin, you look very happy, so I suppose it is something very good to see, or good to eat.”

Two minutes later the girl had pushed open the door of the mystery-room, and was trying to pull Philip in with her, but that gentleman, on seeing that strangers were present, had stepped back.

“No, no, you must come in,” cried the girl in happy excitement. The young man, seeing the determination on his companion’s face, somewhat puzzled, silently followed her into the room. And then Nathalie swirled him about so that he faced Mr. Banker, crying, “Mr. Banker, this is Philip de Brie Renwick!” And then, without waiting for that gentleman to acknowledge the introduction, she took Philip’s hand and led him towards Mrs. Renwick, who, as she saw the young man approaching, tremblingly arose, and, with clasped hands, cried, “Oh, it is Philip, my son!”

“No it is not Philip, your son,” quickly answered the young man, who had instantly divined who the old lady was, “but Philip’s son, your grandson, Philip de Brie Renwick.”

The next moment Philip was holding the old lady in his arms, while he quietly tried to soothe her sobs, as she wept in happy joy on his breast. As her sobs subsided somewhat, Philip said gently, “Mother Mine,”—it used to be his father’s pet name for his mother,—“here is the ring you gave father when at college.” He drew the seal ring from his finger and held it up before his grandmother, who, with one look at it, cried, “Yes, grandson, I know he has gone, for he promised me—” there was a quiver in her voice—“that the ring should never be removed until—” she drew a deep breath that threatened to turn into a sob—“until he was no more. But he has given me—you, his son. Oh, my dear boy, my own grandson!”

Nathalie sat by her little sewing-table under the trees, gazing off at her grand old friends, the purple-misted mountains. It had seemed hard to do anything, this her last day at Seven Pillars, but gaze at the lofty heights that stood forth so calm and beautiful in their mystical splendor on this gloriously White Mountain day. But she must read over that letter to see if it was all right, so, in soft, low tone she read slowly,

“Dear Helen:

“I have such good news to tell you that I can hardly write,—for, oh, Helen! the little old lady who lived in the red house is Mrs. Renwick, and Philip de Brie, the British soldier whom we found up in the cabin on the mountain, is her grandson! And I have won the prize. No, of course, it is not really a prize, but the good-will and affectionate regard of Aunt Mary, because—well—I made her happy by selecting her son’s Bible as the most valuable thing in her house. And now I have dandy news to tell. She is going to send me to college. I have just lived in a dream ever since I heard the good news. Yes, and I have one hundred dollars for my very own, to do just as I like with—no restrictions, reparations, or indemnities, but just for wee little me. I think that blessed sum was given to me, because the boys, when told I had won the prize, could not understand anything so vague as going to college, but they did finger that crisp bank-note with eager, curious little fingers when I showed it to them. Sometimes I feel a little guilty, for really Cynthia’s selection, a Van Dyke painting, was the most valuable from a certain point of view.

“And, oh, what I told you would happen about Philip and Janet is true, for they are engaged, and go about looking into each other’s eyes in a state of beatific happiness. Now she will be a grand lady, for she to live with her new husband, and mother, in a beautiful mansion in Boston. And Cynthia. Well, Mrs. Renwick was quite angry with her, but finally, after mother and I had talked to her, and told her the disadvantages she labored under, and how she wanted to marry Mr. Buddie, why she partly relented, for she is to set Cynthia up in a studio in Boston, and try to get her friends to buy her pictures, for she insists that Cynthia is a real artist.

“And Mrs. Renwick—mother says I must learn to call her Aunt Mary—wanted Sheila to live with her, and as there was no question of separating her from Danny, he goes to Boston with her and is to be educated, and I know he will grow to be just a splendid man. Mrs. Van Vorst has taken another one of my kids, Tony. She has always been in love with those black eyes of his, and she insists that he is going to be a great musician. Then there was dear little Jean. Yes, he had to have something good come into his life, too, so mother and I have decided to take him to live with us.

“And now for another bit of news. I had a nice, long letter from the soldier-boy, Van Darrell, and isn’t it too funny, but that Blue Robin girl of his was just me all the time. Now for the fairy-tale part of my story. Do you remember my telling you about writing a letter to a soldier-boy, and slipping it into a comfort-kit that, with a lot of others, was to be given to the boys at Camp Mills?

“Well, Van got it. He says that it set him to thinking, and made him realize that we were not only going into this war of wars to get even with the Huns, but because it is our duty to give the liberty that we enjoy in our country to all the nations in the world. And he has been ordered overseas. Yes, and he says he’s going, ready to make the sacrifice if necessary, and to give his life that all men may be free. Oh, I’m so glad I wrote that letter, and to think it has done some one some good. Yes, and I’m going to pray as hard as I can that the soldier-boy will come back to his mother, and to his friend, Blue Robin. Yes, indeed, I am glad that he is not just a conceited boy, as I at one time feared.

“So good-by, you dear little maid, serving the Lord so faithfully with those busy fingers of yours. I think of you every day, and pray for you every night, so, with a bushel of love, I am, as ever,