had ripened into the
maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion, the
same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully like
Ida's. Jack looked, and as he looked he became convinced.

"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."

"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

"Yes, madam."

"I had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of Ida just before I lost her;
I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you when we get to my
house."

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet
street. The driver dismounted and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs.
Clifton to alight.

Bashfully our hero followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding,
seated himself in an elegant parlor furnished with a splendor which
excited his admiration and wonder. He had little time to look about him,
for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to remove her street attire, hastened
downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

"Can you remember Ida when she was first brought to your house?" she
asked. "Did she look anything like this picture?"

"It is her image," answered Jack, decidedly. "I should know it
anywhere."

"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my child
you have cared for so long. Oh! why could I not have known it before?
How many lonely days and sleepless nights it would have spared me! But
God be thanked for this late blessing! I shall see my child again."

"I hope so, madam. We must find her."

"What is your name, my young friend?"

"My name is Harding--Jack Harding."

"Jack?" repeated the lady, smiling.

"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be
called John."

"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's heart
at once, and made him think her, if any more beautiful than Ida; "as Ida
is your adopted sister--"

"I call her my ward. I am her guardian, you know."

"You are a young guardian. But, as I was about to say, that makes us
connected in some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Harding, for
that would sound too formal. I will call you Jack."

"I wish you would," said our hero, his face brightening with pride.

It almost upset him to be called Jack by a beautiful lady, who every day
of her life was accustomed to live in a splendor which it seemed to Jack
could not be exceeded even by royal state. Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen
Victoria herself, he could not