aphed to. Her husband hurried on, for
he knew of the flood and feared for his wife's relatives who lived in
that town. He took me back with him, and I have lived with Uncle John
and Aunt Sarah ever since."

"But your father and mother, Amy?"

"No one ever knew what became of them. They--they were never found,
though a careful search was made. I was the only one left."

"And was there nothing to tell of your past life?"

"There wasn't much to tell, you see--I was so small. There was a sort
of diary in the bed with me, but it only gave details of my baby
days--probably it was written by my mother--for the handwriting is
that of a woman. Aunt Sarah gave it to me the other day. I shall
always treasure it."

"And is that all?"

"Well, there was a mention of something--in a vague sort of way--that I
was to inherit when I grew up. Whether it was land or money no one can
tell. The reference is so veiled. Even Uncle John, and he is a stock and
bond broker, you know, says he is puzzled. He has had a search made in
Rockford--that's where the flood was--but it came to nothing. And so
that is all I know of my past."

"But your aunt must know something of your mother if they were
relatives."

"Very little. They saw each other hardly at all, and not for some years
before my mother's marriage, Aunt Sarah says. How my parents came to pin
the Stoningtons' address on my baby dress they can only guess. And I'll
never know. Probably they did it before they were--were drowned."

"Then your name isn't Stonington after all, Amy?"

"Oh, yet it is. The queer part of it is that my mother is said to have
married a man of the same name as Uncle John, but no relative, as far as
we can learn. So I'm Amy Stonington just the same. My uncle and aunt
formally adopted me after they found that there was no hope of locating
my parents. And so I've lived in ignorance of the mystery about me until
just the other day."

"And then they told you?"

"Yes. It was discussing the advisability of this that caused Uncle John
and Aunt Sarah to confer so often. Then they decided that I was getting
old enough to be told. They said they would rather it would come to me
from themselves than from strangers."

"Oh, then others know of it?"

"Yes, a few persons in town, but they were good enough to keep it quiet
for my sake. Among them, so Uncle John told me, were Alice Jallow's
people. That is why I think she wrote the note. She must have found out
about m