(I was too
young to have said them); but I could read the Word of God to them, and
they did the deed."

Mrs. Willoughby took the little book in her hands and pressed it to her
lips. "It was often in the hands of my darling Hilda, you say? and those
words in a foreign language became as precious to her as did the English
ones to her mother in the little Bible she gave her ere they parted?
Blessed book, God's own inspired revelation of Himself, which alone can
make us 'wise unto salvation.'"

Mrs. Willoughby listened with great pleasure to Frida's tale, glancing
every now and again at the fair girl face, which was lit up as with
sunshine as she spoke of her happy days and dear friends in the Forest.

"I must write to a friend in Dringenstadt," she said, "to go to the
Forest and tell them all the good news,--of how good God has been to me
in restoring me to my mother's friends, and in letting me know that a
brother of my father's was alive. But see, here comes the postman. I
must run and get the letters."

In a minute she re-entered bearing a number of letters in her hand.

"Ah! here are quite a budget," she said. "See, grandmother, there is one
for you bearing the New York mark, and another for myself from
Frankfort. Ah! that must be from the uncle you spoke of, Dr. Heinz. You
said he had gone there, did you not?"

Whilst Frida was talking thus, her grandmother had opened her American
letter, and saw that it was from Reginald Gower. "He has heard, of
course, of my dear husband's death, and writes to sympathize with me.
But no; he could hardly have heard of that event, nor of the discovery
of our grandchild, and replied to it. He must be writing about some
other subject."

She then read as if in a dream the following words:--

"DEAR FRIEND--if indeed I may still dare to address you thus--I
write to ask forgiveness for a sore wrong which I have done to
you and Mr. Willoughby. I confess with deep shame that for some
years I have had a suspicion, nay, almost a certainty, that a
child of your daughter was alive. Miss Drechsler, now living
with Miss Warden, can tell you all. I met the girl, who plays
charmingly on the violin, at a concert in the house of Sir
Richard Stanford. Her face reminded me of a picture I had seen
somewhere, but at first I could not recall where, until the
fact, told me by the Stanfords, of a peculiar necklace which the
girl possessed, and which they d