doubts even as to
her name. Perhaps the wish was father to the thought. At any rate, she had
never liked the name by which she was known; and now she was conscious of
a very definite reason for wishing that it might, in some way, turn out
not to be her name after all. Was it certain that her name was Mary Ann
Owen? She had a strange, weird feeling at the thought of what the
question implied. And there was distinct ground for doubt. When she had
been found by her adopted parents, her baby tongue, in answer to their
questioning, had pronounced her name as best it could. But, as her speech
was less distinct than is usually that of a child of her apparent years,
they had never felt quite sure about her name. The name by which she
forthwith became known to them was the best interpretation they could put
upon her broken words, and it had been accepted by the child herself
without objection; but in the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Burton there had
always been a lingering doubt. Miss Owen had been aware of this, but had
given it little heed. Now, however, the fact that there was uncertainty as
to her name came vividly to her mind. And yet, if her name was not Mary
Ann Owen, it might be something else quite as far from her desires. But
stay, might it not be supposed that her real name, whatever it might be,
was similar in sound to the name her baby tongue had been thought to
pronounce? She had tried to tell her kind friends her name; and they had
understood her to say that it was Mary Ann Owen. If they were mistaken,
what other name was there of similar sound? Ah, there was one! Then she
thrilled with almost a delirium of delight, which quickly gave place to a
guilty feeling--as though she had put forth her hand towards that which
was too sacred for her touch.

"What silly day-dreams have come into my head!" she cried.

"The Golden Shoemaker" too had his ponderings, in these days. Of late he
had been thinking more about his little Marian than for many years past;
and, if he had searched for the reason of this, he would have discovered
it in the fact that his young girl secretary daily reminded him,
in various ways, of his long lost child. Miss Owen was--or so he
fancied--very much like what his darling would have become. There was,
to be sure, not much in that, after all; and the same might have been the
case with many another young girl. But the points of resemblance between
the history of his young secretary and the early fate of his