surprise he exclaimed, "As sure as I am born this
must be a young Salo. It is written in his eyes. Give me your hand,
boy. Your father was my friend, my best friend in the world; so we must
be friends, too."

Salo's eyes expressed more and more surprise. This manner of being taken
to a hospital seemed very odd to him. The strangest of all, however, was
that Leonore sat in the corner of the carriage smiling contentedly, for
Mrs. Maxa had just whispered something into her ear.

"Do we have to say good-bye now, Leonore," Salo asked, jumping up the
carriage step, "and can't I see you any more?"

"Salo," Mrs. Maxa said, "I was just thinking that you could sit beside
the coachman if you want to. You can drive to Nolla with us, for you
will want to see where Leonore is going. I can have you brought back
to-morrow in time to meet your friends. Do you approve of that, Philip?"

"Certainly, certainly," the brother answered, "but if that is the plan, I
am going along. I thought at first that this trip would prove a very
mournful one. It seems more like a festal-journey to me now, so I've
come, too. Salo and I will sit high up and to-morrow I promise to bring
him back here."

With shining eyes the boy climbed to the seat which the coachman had just
relinquished. He understood now that the hospital was not to be their
destination. With many hearty handshakes and good wishes the two Remke
ladies at last let their friend and adviser go. After many more last
greetings to all the party the carriage finally rolled towards the
valley.

Leonore was so exhausted that, leaning against her companion, she fell
asleep, but she staunchly held on to Mrs. Maxa's hand, which seemed to
her that of a loving mother. It was the first time in her life that she
had felt this.

On the high seat outside the conversation was extremely lively. Young
Salo had to tell where and how he lived, and then his companion explained
in turn the places they were passing through and told him whatever
unusual had happened in the neighborhood. The uncle found out that
neither Salo nor his sister had the slightest remembrance of their
parents. The boy's earliest memory went back to an estate in Holstein
where they had lived with an elderly great-aunt, his grandmother's
sister. They were about five or six years old when the aunt died, after
which they were sent to Hanover to their present abode.

Twice a year a relation of their great-aunt came to see them, but he