They were a happy trio that set out for Arlington a half hour later. Harry and Courage walked closely, side by side, for there was much to be said that could not by any chance have any interest for Brevet; besides, you could not have kept Brevet still enough for five seconds together to listen to anything. He was quite as wild with joy as any little terrier, liberated from his kennel for the first run over the hills in a fortnight. But the joy that made him run hither and thither, and come bounding back to press a flower into Courage’s hands, or simply to look up to her face, or brush affectionately against her in true terrier fashion, was something more than animal spirits. Courage was coming up to Ellismere to live! Courage was coming! No little May-time songster was ever more joyous over the coming of Spring, and Brevet would have trilled as glad a carol if he could. But of the three Courage was, if possible, the very happiest, for she had such a happy secret in her keeping—that is, in her pocket—for the mail had brought the expected letter. The secret, however, must stay a secret until she should reach Arlington and could have a little private talk with Joe; and so she hurried Harry along much faster than was at all to his liking, for Harry would have been glad to have that walk last for “a year and a day,” and so perhaps would Courage, save for the letter.

It was not that it contained any wonderful revelation—it simply said that unfortunately the asylum authorities knew nothing more of Sylvia’s antecedents than she herself knew; that she had simply been thrust in at the asylum door by some old woman who succeeded in beating a mysterious retreat into the darkness before any one had seen her. A scrap of paper pinned to her dress bore the name of Sylvia, and the statement that the child had neither father nor mother. In addition to this the only possible clew lay in two or three articles found at the time in Sylvia’s keeping. They had been given to her when she left the institution, the matron impressing upon her the need and importance of guarding them carefully, as they would possibly prove of great value some day. They regretted very keenly that they were unable to furnish any further information. But, nevertheless, the letter stirred the first real hope for Courage that Joe was right in his conjecture, for it reminded her of the little belongings Sylvia had once shown her—a coral necklace, a gay little silver belt set with imitation turquoise and rubies in great variety, and a much-used devotional book. She remembered there was no writing in the book save the name of what appeared to be some gentleman’s country-place and some date way back in the fifties. She could not recall the name, but she thought she would know it if she heard it, and felt quite sure, now that she came to think of it, that she had heard a name on Mammy’s lips that sounded like it. No wonder that something seemed far more important just then than even her own great happiness, and that she was impatient to reach Joe’s cabin.

“I will hurry on,” she said, when they came in sight of the cabin. “You capture Brevet, Harry, and make him understand that he will be reduced to the ranks if he says one word down here of what has happened up at Homespun—your mother must be the first to know.”

“You have set me a rather difficult task,” laughed Harry; but he saw the wisdom of it, and bearing down upon Brevet he detained him an unwilling little prisoner until he had extracted—but slowly and painfully it must be confessed—the required promise. Courage found the little cabin full; that is, Mary Duff, Sylvia and the children all were there as she expected, but a word to Mammy, to whom Courage’s slightest wish was law, and the little cabin was cleared in a twinkling, all hands finding themselves peremptorily shooed like a pack of geese to the pond below, under some foolish pretext or other.

“Has the letter come?” Joe asked, breathlessly. “Any news in it?”

“Yes, I have a letter,” and Courage drew a rocking-chair close to the bed; “but there is nothing new in it, only it suggests something to me. It speaks of some treasures of Sylvia’s that might throw a little light on the subject. I remember now that Sylvia once showed them to me, and I do not see why I have been so stupid as not to think of them before. They were a string of coral beads, a gay belt of some sort, and a little devotional book.”

“Anythin’ written in de book?” interrupted Joe, his clasped hands trembling with excitement.

“Nothing much, Joe. We mustn’t grow too hopeful quite yet, but I am quite sure it was some name such as would belong to a gentleman’s country-place, and I think I should recall it if I heard it. Now, doesn’t Mammy sometimes speak of the plantation where she used to live, by some name or other?”

“Sunnyside,” panted Joe, “Sunnyside; it’s on her lips eb’ry day or two. Do you t’ink—do you t’ink dat’s it?”

“Oh, I don’t dare to think, Joe, it would be so easy for me to be mistaken——”

“Call Mammy then, call Sylvy,” Joe cried, excitedly, “call dem quick!”

“Yes, I will call them right away, but, Joe, we must all try to be calm” (for she feared the effect of so much excitement). “You must be calm for your own sake, Joe, and for theirs, and if we should chance to be on the verge of a happy discovery, we must not spring it too suddenly upon them. Let me talk to them a little before you ask Sylvia about the name.”

But Courage in her own mind was quite joyously sure that Sunnyside was the name in the little book. Mammy and Sylvia came in answer to the call from Courage—Mary Duff and the Bennetts, wondering what was up, remained perforce just as obediently behind.

“Sylvia,” said Courage, signalling Joe to be quiet for a moment, “do you remember once showing me a little devotional book of yours? I was trying just now to remember its name.” “‘Words of Jesus,’ Miss Courage.”

“‘Words of Jesus,’” said Mammy solemnly. “Oh, but I loved dat little book. My Missus gave it to me years ago, an’ I gave it to my little girl when she was sol’ away from me way down in Alabama.”

“And, Sylvia, there were some other little things, were there not?”

“Yes, Miss Courage, a little string of coral beads, and a tinsel belt, you remember.”

Joe and Courage were looking straight at Mammy, who, ashy white under her dark skin, leaned against the foot of the bed; but Sylvia, all intent upon Joe, did not notice.

“Come nearer, chile,” said Joe, for his turn had come now, although his voice all but failed him as he took Sylvia’s hand in his. “Was somethin’ written in de little book?”

“Yes,” said Sylvia, her own voice unsteady now, for she knew there must be some object in all this questioning.

“Have a care now, Mammy,” cried Joe, exultingly. “Something may be going to happen, Mammy. Was it Sunnyside, chile?”

“Yes, it was Sunnyside,” she answered, eagerly. “What do you know about it, Joe?”

But before Joe could explain, Mammy’s arms were about her in one wild ecstasy of delight, and then dropping into a chair she drew Sylvia to her lap.

“Sure by eb’ryt’ing ‘bout you, Honey; by yo’ face, by yo’ hands, by de way you walk, by yo’ ebery motion, by de way you drink a cup o’ tea. Maria was jus’ about yo’ age when she was sol’ away from me, an’ sometimes you’ve so much ‘minded me of her I could scarce bear to look at you, neber dreamin’ you could possibly b’long ter me. But, Sylvy,” and Mammy’s voice at once grew troubled with the thought that occurred to her, “why hab you neber done try to fin’ yo’ own people, chile?” "Why, Mammy! I knew nothing about myself at all. I was just pushed into the door of a coloured orphan asylum in Brooklyn, when I was a little bit of a girl, by a very old woman I remember, and I never saw or heard of her again. There was a little piece of paper pinned on to my dress which merely said, ‘This little girl hasn’t got any father or mother,’ and that my name was Sylvia.”

“Then yo’ mamma’s daid, is she?” said Mammy in a low voice, as though speaking to herself. “I wonder who she married an’ how she drifted ‘way up North, an’ why she never wrote to her old Mammy—but we’ll never know in dis work, will we, Honey?—but no matter, no matter, we’s got each oder now, Sylvy,” and Mammy stroked Sylvia’s hair with one trembling hand, as the happy realisation chased all the sadness from her face. “Maria coaxed that little belt from me,” she continued, never one moment taking her eyes from Sylvia’s face, “one day long ’fo’ she was sol’ from me. My Missus had given it to me when I was jus’ a slip of a girl. She gave me the dear book too, but I put that into Maria’s pocket an’ begged her to read it now an’ again, cause Maria allers seemed too lighthearted to give much ’tention to religion. Seems as d’ough I could hardly wait, Sylvy, to lay my eyes on d’ose little keepsakes once more. An’, Sylvy chile, do you ‘member what you said first words you spoke ter me an’ Joe? You said, ‘I thought I should find some of my own people down here in Virginia.’ ‘Lor, chile, you didn’t dream what gospel trufes you were speakin’.”

Meantime Harry and Brevet had appeared upon the scene, and astonished beyond measure at what they saw and heard, sat down on a bench beside the door and listened in mute wonder.

“But who,” said Mammy at last, when she could bring her confused thoughts into some sort of order, and with Sylvia still seated upon her lap, “who was de one to find all dis out for me?” turning toward Courage for an explanation. But Courage simply looked toward Joe for answer.

“Yes, Mammy,” replied Joe, leaning comfortably back against his pillows, the embodiment of dusky radiance, “I has dat honour, Mammy. Lyin’ here so helpless when I was first brought back ter de cabin, an’ watchin’ you an’ Sylvy move roun’ de room togeder, it came home ter me how you took after each oder in a hundred little ways, an’ den ’memberin’ how Sylvy had tol’ me one day how she knew nothin’ ’bout who b’longed ter her, it des ’spicioned me dat she might b’long to you, an’ so Miss Courage here, she wrote up to de ’sylum an’ de answer des come dis bery afternoon. But o’ co’se, as you know from Sylvy, dey couldn’t tell us nuffin, but ter ’mind Miss Courage of de little treasures Sylvy had in her possession, an’ den Miss Courage ’minded how Sylvy had once showed dem to her an’ how dere was somethin’ written in de little book, but o’ co’se we could not des be sure it was de same name as de ole plantation whar you lived till we sent for Sylvy an’ asked her. An’ oh! but it’s a happy day for Joe; de happiest day in all my life, an’ it’s all come of me being par’lysed an’ havin’ a chance ter notice,” and Joe spoke as though the paralysis was unquestionably something for which he had need to be devoutly thankful.

“Joe,” said Mammy, who had left her chair and was standing close at his bedside, “I’se been hard on you an’ unfair to you mos’ o’ my life, Joe,” and she stood looking down as shamefacedly as any little school culprit.

“Don’t you say nuffin, Mammy. Hasn’t I allers been hard on you an’ unfair to you?”

“Don’t either of you say anything,” interrupted Courage. “If ever two people in this world have made up for bygones, I think you two people have,” and Joe and Mammy shook their old heads in assent, for happily for them both they knew that Courage had spoken but the truth.

Meantime Brevet had slipped away and had enjoyed the exquisite pleasure of telling Mary Duff and the Bennetts the wonderful news, whereupon they had of course hurried pell-mell up to the cabin and joined in the general jubilation. It was well-nigh sunset before the good-byes were said—those last good-byes they had come for the purpose of saying—and before they were all started on their walk home.

Then Courage turned to Harry.

“I think I will run back and just tell Joe and Mammy——”

“Tell all the world,” said Harry, proudly, “the sooner the better.”

A few minutes later Courage appeared in the cabin doorway.

“Come here,” she said, motioning to Mammy and hurrying to Joe’s side. “There’s another secret in the wind this afternoon, and I want to tell it to both of you myself. I think I shall come down here to live for good and all before very long——”

“De Lord be praised!” ejaculated Joe and Mammy in one breath.

“And I’m coming because I am going to marry Harry Ellis——” “’Tis de Lord’s own doin’s,” cried Joe, fervently, “for we all need you.”

“And never you fear but Sylvia will live here too,” said Courage, turning radiantly to Mammy. Then in a flash she was gone to hurry after the little party over the road. With Harry and Brevet, Courage went straight up to Ellismere that night to see Grandma Ellis, and then another dear old heart was gladdened beyond all words by the good news she had to tell. The next day Courage went back to town with the Bennetts, leaving Sylvia to stay with Mammy until she should return, and Courage was to return before very long. A good deal had been talked over and arranged for in the evening spent at Ellismere, and among other things that there should be a wedding at Little Homespun late in October. By that time, probably, Joe would be able to drive up from Arlington, and Colonel Anderson would come down from Washington, and Courage knew that the Everetts and a few other dear friends would come down just as gladly from New York, and another matter that had been as fully agreed upon was, that although Courage’s home was to be at Ellismere for the winter, she and Harry should move up to Little Homespun the coming summer, and Mary Duff should bring down some other party of little city-children to run wild and enjoy all the delights of the unknown country just as the little Bennetts had done.

And so it came about that there was no real sadness in the good-byes which were said on the morrow—even the Bennetts found they were glad to go, now it came to the point, for when all is said, home is home the world over. Harry and Brevet drove up to Washington to see the little party off and then drove back to Ellismere, not saying much to each other by the way, but both very contented and happy. Brevet was humming his own favourite air, as in all serene and quiet moods, until at last as though to give vent to the joy within him he broke into the old words,—

“I’se a little Alabama Coon

I hasn’t been born very long-”

“Right you are,” laughed Harry, interrupting, “and a dear little coon into the bargain, and who has been born quite long enough to make the time tell.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brevet, with puzzled frown.

“Oh, I mean you’ve been born long enough to accomplish quite a great deal, on the whole, and the finest work you ever put in was up at Little Homespun yesterday.”

“You mean about asking Miss Courage to come back?”

“Exactly. I think your name will always stick to you now—I’m sure I shall never call you by any other——”

“You mean my name. Brevet?”

“Yes.”

“But why? I do not quite understand,” for Brevet’s ideas had really grown a little hazy as to the full meaning of his name.

“Why, Joe gave you the name, you remember, because that is a title given in the army simply as a reward of merit. You have the honour, that is, of being a captain without the responsibility. Now it seems to me the title belongs to you more than ever since yesterday afternoon. You sailed right in and have won all the glory of persuading Miss Courage to come back to Virginia, but I do not see that you have assumed a grain of responsibility. It is a serious thing to have induced her to exchange her home for ours. Now who’s going to see when she comes that she’s always perfectly happy and contented, I’d like to know?”

“You are the one to see to that, Uncle Harry. Isn’t that what husbands have to do? Besides, I don’t think it’s fair to blame me when you yourself wanted her so much to come.”

“Blame! bless your dear little heart! who thought of blame for a minute? Irresponsible little rascal though you be, you have earned your proud title and Brevet you shall be to the end of the chapter.”

Brevet did not quite understand this either, but that did not matter. He knew that he had succeeded in making everybody very happy, Uncle Harry in particular, and for the present that was quite enough to know and to understand.

THE END.