now Mrs. Ocumpaugh's whole history, you know that neither she
nor her husband has any real claim on the child."

"In that you are mistaken," I quickly protested. "Six years of care and
affection such as they have bestowed on Gwendolen, to say nothing of the
substantial form which these have taken from the first, constitute a
claim which all the world must recognize, if you do not. Think of Mr.
Ocumpaugh's belief in her relation to him! Think of the shock which
awaits him, when he learns that she is not of his blood and lineage!"

"I know, I know." Her fingers worked nervously; the woman was showing
through the actress. "But I will not give up the child. Ask anything but
that."

"Madam, I have had the honor so far to make but one requirement--that
you do not carry the child out of the country--yet."

As I uttered this ultimatum, some influence, acting equally upon both,
caused us to turn in the direction of the river; possibly an
apprehension lest some word of this conversation might be overheard by
the child or the nurse. A surprise awaited us which effectually
prevented Mrs. Carew's reply. In the corner of the Ocumpaugh grounds
stood a man staring with all his eyes at the so-called little Harry. An
expression of doubt was on his face. I knew the minute to be critical
and was determined to make the most of it.

"Do you know that man?" I whispered to Mrs. Carew.

The answer was brief but suggestive of alarm.

"Yes, one of the gardeners over there--one of whom Gwendolen is
especially fond."

"She's the one to fear, then. Engage his attention while I divert hers."

All this in a whisper while the man was summoning up courage to speak.

"A pretty child," he stammered, as Mrs. Carew advanced toward him
smiling. "Is that your little nephew I've heard them tell about? Seems
to me he looks like our own little lost one; only darker and sturdier."

"Much sturdier," I heard her say as I made haste to accost the child.

"Harry," I cried, recalling my old address when I was in training for a
gentleman; "your aunt is in a hurry. The cars are coming; don't you hear
the whistle? Will you trust yourself to me? Let me carry you--I mean,
pick-a-back, while we run for the train."

The sweet eyes looked up--it was fortunate for Mrs. Carew that no one
but myself had ever got near enough to see those eyes or she could
hardly have kept her secret--and at first slowly, then with instinctive
trust, the little arms rose and I caught