d that of astonishment which had rested on Mrs.
Lindsay's worn and faded face.

"I am heartily glad that at last the truth has been discovered, and
that it fully exonerated your mother from all connection with the
theft; for I confess the circumstances prejudiced me against her. Let
us be encouraged, my dear little girl, to believe that in due time
all the other mysteries will be quite as satisfactorily cleared up."

"I can't afford to doubt it; if I did, I should not be able to----"

She paused, while an increasing pallor overspread her features.

"That is right, dear, believe in her. We should drink and live upon
faith in our mothers, as we did their milk that nourished us. When
children lose faith in their mothers, God pity both! Did you learn
from Hannah the character of the paper?"

"How could I question a servant concerning my mother's secrets? I
only learned that Mr. Hargrove had given to my mother a copy of that
which was burned by the lightning."

"In writing to her, did you mention the facts?"

"I have not as yet. I doubted whether I ought to allude to the
subject, lest she should think I was intruding upon her confidence."

"Dismiss that fear, and in your next letter acquaint her fully with
all you learned from poor Hannah; it may materially involve her
interest or welfare. Now, Regina, I am about to say something which
you must not misinterpret, for my purpose is to comfort you, to
strengthen your confidence in your mother. I do not know her real
name, I never heard your father's mentioned, but this I do
know,--dear Peyton told me that in this room he performed the
marriage ceremony that made them husband and wife. Why such profound
secrecy was necessary your poor mother will some day explain to you.
Until then, be patient."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lindsay. It does comfort me to know that Mr.
Hargrove was the minister who married them. Of course it is no secret
to you that my mother is an actress? I discovered it accidentally,
for you know the papers were never left in my way, and in all her
letters she alluded to her 'work being successful,' but never
mentioned what it was; and I always imagined she was a musician
giving concerts. But one day last June, at the Sabbath-school
Festival, Mrs. Potter gave me a Boston paper, containing an article
marked with ink, which she said she wished me to read, because it
would edify a Sunday-school pupil. It was a letter from Italy,
describing one of the theatres the