It was two days later, and Miette had almost forgotten to “be careful”—she felt so strong and well in her pleasant surroundings at the Cedars.

As Dorothy expected, Mrs. White took the lonely girl to her heart at once, and it was only a matter of time—that of waiting for Miette’s convalescence,—that now withheld them from taking the trip to New York in search of the girl’s friends or relatives.

Nothing had been seen or heard of Urania. The other girls’ experience in the country jail had been discussed and settled amicably through the charitable interference of Dorothy, who insisted that the old officer was not responsible, that he did not mean to treat them so harshly, but was frightened into taking the extreme measure of holding them through the “story” given by the constable who was working so assiduously for the reward. Major Dale was at first inclined to deal summarily with the man, but Dorothy pleaded his case so ardently that she finally “won out,” as the major expressed it and so the old officer was let off with an unmistakable “curtain lecture.”

He declared he had taken enough from the Birchland constable to pay for all his other mistakes, for indeed the wrath of that officer when he found his “prize” had escaped was not of the sort that is easily allayed.

All this, “added to what he got,” made enough, Dorothy declared.

Miette’s frail health, her tendency to faint in any unusual excitement, caused Mrs. White apprehension as time for the proposed journey to New York arrived. If only Miette would be satisfied to wait at the Cedars while Dorothy and Mrs. White could go, then, Mrs. White told her, she could take another trip, when some key to the situation had been obtained.

But Miette was so anxious—she wanted above everything else to see Marie, and then she felt assured she would be able to learn all the particulars about her aunt leaving New York.

As days passed Mrs. White got into communication with Mrs. Pangborn. Letters passed to and from Glenwood daily, and Dorothy’s aunt told her they would have some business with Miette’s attorneys when they reached New York.

Finally one particularly bright day, Miette came down to the dining room with the regular request “to go to-day,” pleading from the depths of her wonderful dark eyes.

“I feel so well,” she declared, “and if we could only go and have it all settled—”

“Well,” agreed Mrs. White, “I guess we can go to-day.”

How the color came and went in Miette’s cheeks! How excited she was to get started, every moment seeming to add to her impatience.

“Now, my dear,” cautioned Mrs. White, “you have promised me to keep calm, and not get any more spells. If you are so excited now, before we leave at all, how do you expect to keep calm when you get into the bustle of busy New York?”

So the girl tried to appear less agitated, but Dorothy could see that every nerve in the child’s frame was a-quiver with anticipation.

At last they were on the train. They would be in New York in one hour. Miette talked incessantly. What she would tell Marie—she would like to buy her a little present before she went to her store; then perhaps they could take Marie out to lunch—it was Marie, Marie, until both Mrs. White and Dorothy marvelled at this girl’s extreme affection for a little cash girl, when she professes such strong dislike for being considered one of the working class.

“Now,” said Mrs. White, as the train rolled into the great Grand Central station, “we will go first to the lawyers’. A day in New York passes quickly, and we have considerable to attend to during business hours.”

It seemed to Dorothy that even New York had grown busier and noisier—she used to think it impossible to add to these conditions, but surely at eleven o’clock on a business morning nothing could be more active than the great metropolis.

They boarded a subway car. This underground travel always excited Dorothy’s interest, “to think that little human beings could build beneath the great solid surface of New York, could fortify these immense caves with walls of huge stones,” she exclaimed to Miette, “don’t you think it marvelous?”

“Yes,” replied Miette simply, without evincing the slightest admiration for that part of the wonders of the nineteenth century’s achievements.

Then the tall buildings—like slices of another world suspended between the earth and sky. Dorothy had seen New York before, but the great American city never failed to excite in her a truly patriotic pride.

“Have you such things in France?” she asked Miette, by way of emphasizing the wonders.

“Some of them,” replied the French girl, “but what seems to me a pity is that you have nothing old in New York, everything is new and shiny. There is no—no history, you tear everything down just when it gets interesting. Marie told me one day that this is because there are so many insurance companies here. When people die you get a lot of money, then you buy a lot of new things.”

Mrs. White laughed outright at this girlish speech. She had often heard the objection made to new “shiny things,”—that they looked as if some one had just died and left an insurance policy—but to apply the comparison to tall buildings was a new idea.

A crowded elevator brought them to the office of a law firm. Mrs. White wrote something on her card, and when the messenger returned from an inner room the lady was immediately ushered in—Dorothy and Miette remained outside, looking down on New York from a ten-story view point.

The legal business seemed of small consequence to Miette—she wanted to get out and look for Marie.

Finally the door to the inner room was opened and the two girls were asked to step inside.

“This is the young lady,” said Mrs. White to a man who sat at a desk that was littered with papers.

“Oh, yes,” he answered, looking first at Miette then at a document in his hand, as if making some comparison.

“And she left the boarding school with this young lady?” the lawyer asked, indicating Dorothy.

“Yes, my niece undertook to assist the child,” answered Mrs. White. “We are accustomed to Dorothy’s ventures, but she is young, and we have to be careful sometimes,” she added, with a look that Dorothy did not exactly understand.

“I see,” replied the gentleman, also smiling significantly, “Well, she is quite a—philanthropist. She ought to study law.”

Dorothy blushed at the compliment. Miette merely looked puzzled at the proceedings. What could this man mean? What did he know of her business? her eyes were asking.

“And just how old are you?” inquired the man turning to the French girl. “Fifteen,” she answered simply.

“And you came to New York last year?” he continued.

“Yes,” answered Miette, wondering why she should be thus catechised.

Then he unrolled a great packet of papers. From an envelope in the packet he took a small picture.

“Whose picture is this?” he asked Miette.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “My own mother’s—the one we had at home. Where did you get it?” and she reverently pressed the small glass-covered miniature to her lips.

“There can be no question as to identity,” the lawyer said to Mrs. White, without appearing to notice Miette’s emotion. “Of course the legal technicalities will have to be complied with, but this is without question the child in the case.”

Miette allowed Dorothy to look at the miniature. What a beautiful face—yes, Miette was like this sweet sad-faced woman.

The lawyer was talking aside to Mrs. White.

“I will be very glad to make some arrangements,” Dorothy heard him say. “Of course, the child is in our charge, and we thought everything was going on satisfactorily. It is a strange thing what important developments some times may evolve from the simple matter of one child’s affection for another. The president of Glenwood school has written me that it was entirely due to the interest of Miss Dale that this child’s plight was actually discovered,” he said aloud, intending that both girls should hear the remark.

“Dorothy has been very good—” Miette felt obliged to say, although she feared to make her own voice heard in the serious matter that the lawyer was evidently discussing.

“For the present then,” said the lawyer, “this is all we can do. I will be glad to call at the Cedars as soon as I can thoroughly investigate the details, and then we will see what better plan may be arranged.”

Mrs. White was ready to leave.

“Just one minute,” said the lawyer. “I neglected to ascertain what was the name of the firm which you say you had been employed by?” he asked Miette.

“Gorden-Granfield’s,” she replied, a deep flush overspreading her face at the mention of the “store,” where she had spent such miserable hours.

“And who worked with you, near you?” he asked further, putting down on his paper a hurried note. “Marie Bloise,” answered Miette promptly.

“Very well,” he said, putting the paper back on his desk. “I am entirely obliged, Mrs. White,” he continued, “and very glad indeed to have met this little heroine,” he smiled to Dorothy. “Our young girls of to-day very often display a more commendable type of heroism than characterized the Joans of former days,” he declared. “The results of their work are more practical, to say the least.”

Then they entered the elevator, and Miette, still carrying the envelope with the miniature (the lawyer gave the picture to her) stepped impatiently ahead of Dorothy and Mrs. White when they reached the sidewalk.

“I feel foolish with such compliments,” Dorothy whispered to her aunt. “I can’t see what I have done to deserve them?”

“You discovered Miette,” replied her aunt, simply, “and that seems to be more than even the smartest lawyers in New York had been able to do.”

Dorothy did not exactly understand this remark, but they were downtown now, and within sight of Gorden-Granfield’s establishment.

Through the great department store Miette led Mrs. White and Dorothy to the basement—where, the French girl said, Marie worked.

“She is sure to be on the floor now,” exclaimed Miette, displaying a strange familiarity with “store terms.”

Down in the basement people crowded and fought to get closer to the bargain counters. Dorothy was not accustomed to this sort of shopping—she was almost carried off her feet with the rush and crush. Mrs. White bit her lips—

“And did you actually work here?” she whispered to Miette.

“Yes,” replied the child, “Is it not terrible?”

“Awful! There is absolutely not a breath of air.”

“That was what made me sick,” said Miette. “I could not stand—the atmosphere.”

“No wonder. I cannot see how anyone could stand it.”

“There is a girl I know!” exclaimed Miette, as a child in a somber black dress, with a black lined basket in her hand, made her way through the crowds.

“Where is Marie?” asked Miette, when she could get close enough to the cash girl to ask her the question.

“Gone,” replied the other, glancing curiously at Miette. “Where’re you workin’?” she asked in turn.

“I am not working,” said Miette, not unkindly. “I am at boarding school.”

“Gee!” exclaimed the girl in the black dress.

Then the clerk called: “Here check!”

“But tell me about Marie,” insisted Miette, keeping as close to the cash girl as she could under the circumstances.

“I guess she’s in the hospital,” answered the girl. “She was awful sick—had to be carried out of the store.”

“Here check!” yelled the clerk again. “If you don’t mind your business and get these things wrapped I’ll report you.”

The little girl made no reply, but simply took the parcel in her basket. Then the clerk espied Miette.

“Oh, hello, Frenchy,” she exclaimed, while Miette’s cheeks flamed as the people around stared at her. “Sportin’ now?”

Miette did not reply, but turned and made her way to where Mrs. White and Dorothy waited in a secluded corner.

“Marie is not here,” she told them. “She is sick—gone away.”

“Come,” directed Mrs. White, anxious to get out of the ill-ventilated basement. “We can talk about it upstairs.”

Up in the marble lined arcade Miette told what she had learned. She was “broken hearted.” She did so want to find Marie.

“Well, it seems we must be disappointed in something,” Mrs. White told her, “all our other business has been so satisfactory, we cannot expect everything to go along as if some magic clock ticked out our time in New York.”

But Miette could not be cheered—she was so sorry to know that Marie was sick, then to think she had no time to go to her home—Mrs. White insisted she must do some shopping and then leave on the five o’clock train.

“Couldn’t we go while you shop,” suggested Miette.

“No, indeed, my dear,” replied Mrs. White. “I could not think of trusting you two children in New York alone.”

So they were obliged to “shop” and then to leave New York without Miette fulfilling her promise to Dorothy—that of making her acquainted with the “sweetest girl in all New York, Marie Bloise.”

“But I shall write to her—and at once,” said Miette. “I must hear from her in some way.”