hing had a baby, and died immediately after. Damer said the
woman was his only sister, and accordingly that he must take the child.
At the time Elsie seemed to have no doubts, but every one else talked
about it. Some said the woman was his wife, and others--you can
imagine what they said. Shortly after that they left the
neighbourhood, and we never saw Elsie again. Her husband, I must tell
you, was a mechanical engineer, and considered an excellent workman.
He got a capital appointment in India after he left Leeds, and Elsie
wrote to tell us she was going with him. It was then I so strongly
urged her to stay at home with the children; but she would not be
guided, and merely wrote to say she had placed them with some people in
the north of Ireland, where, I think, she came from herself."

"I fancy," said Lady Eleanor, "I have some of her letters still. You
remember, mamma, they were imprisoned in China, with a number of other
English people, for ever so long. It was after they were released that
we had the last letter (which I am sure I kept), saying that she was
coming home. We did not know at the time whether she meant _alone_ or
not; and then when we saw Edgar Damer's name among the people lost in
that vessel--I forget its name--we concluded that she must have gone on
before."

Thus piecing together the broken memories of the past, the morning went
by. The Rev. Cooper Smith stayed to luncheon, and in the course of
conversation various confirmatory incidents came out. The miniature in
the locket was at once recognised, and it appeared that the locket
itself had been the special gift of little Lady Eleanor. A more
careful comparison of dates proved quite satisfactory, showing, among
other things, that the body had been found at Tor Bay just four months
after the date of the letter which Lady Eleanor had succeeded in
finding, and in which Elsie said she was to start in a few days, and
would be nearly four months on the voyage. "My first visit will be to
the glens, and then I shall try to go over and see you. I have so much
to tell, and to ask your kind advice about. I am unhappy and anxious,
and feel somehow as if I would never see either my child or you, though
I am writing about it. It is so long since we have heard of anybody,
we seem to have been dead, as it were."

Having returned to his hotel, the clergyman made some brief notes of
the story that had thus providentially been brought to light. He d