"Hallo!" exclaimed this individual, jumping up suddenly. "So you've got along, old woman! Is that the gal?"

Ida stared from one to the other, in unaffected amazement.



CHAPTER X. UNEXPECTED QUARTERS.



THE appearance of the man whom Mrs. Hardwick addressed so familiarly was more picturesque than pleasing. He had a large, broad face, which, not having been shaved for a week, looked like a wilderness of stubble. His nose indicated habitual indulgence in alcoholic beverages. His eyes, likewise, were bloodshot, and his skin looked coarse and blotched; his coat was thrown aside, displaying a shirt which bore evidence of having been useful in its day and generation. The same remark may apply to his nether integuments, which were ventilated at each knee, indicating a most praiseworthy regard to the laws of health. He was sitting in a chair pitched back against the wall, with his feet resting on another, and a short Dutch pipe in his mouth, from which volumes of smoke were pouring.

Ida thought she had never seen before so disgusting a man. She continued to gaze at him, half in astonishment, half in terror, till the object of her attention exclaimed,—

"Well, little girl, what you're looking at? Hain't you never seen a gentleman before?"

Ida clung the closer to her companion, who, she was surprised to find, did not resent the man's impertinence.

"Well, Dick, how've you got along since I've been gone?" asked Mrs. Hardwick, to Ida's unbounded astonishment.

"Oh, so so."

"Have you felt lonely any?"

"I've had good company."

"Who's been here?"

Dick pointed significantly to a jug, which stood beside his chair.

"So you've brought the gal. How did you get hold of her?"

There was something in these questions which terrified Ida. It seemed to indicate a degree of complicity between these two, which boded no good to her.

"I'll tell you the particulars by and by," said the nurse, looking significantly at the child's expressive face.

At the same time she began to take off her bonnet.

"You ain't going to stop, are you?" whispered Ida.

"Ain't going to stop!" repeated the man called Dick. "Why shouldn't she? Ain't she at home?"

"At home!" echoed Ida, apprehensively, opening wide her eyes in astonishment.

"Yes, ask her."

Ida looked, inquiringly, at Mrs. Hardwick.

"You might as well take off your things," said the latter, grimly. "We ain't going any farther to-day."

"And where's the lady you said you were going to see?" asked the child, bewildered.

"The one that was interested in you?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm the one."

"You!"

"Yes."

"I don't want to stay here," said Ida, becoming frightened.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?" asked the woman, mockingly.

"Will you take me back early to-morrow?"

"No, I don't intend to take you back at all," said the nurse, coolly.

Ida seemed stupefied with astonishment and terror at first. Then, actuated by a sudden impulse, she ran to the door, and had got it open when the nurse sprang forward, and seizing her by the arm, dragged her rudely back.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" she demanded, roughly.

"Back to father and mother," said Ida, bursting into tears. "Oh, why did you carry me away?"

"I'll tell you why," answered Dick, jocularly. "You see, Ida, we ain't got any little girl to love us, and so we got you."

"But I don't love you, and I never shall," said Ida, indignantly.

"Now don't you go to saying that," said Dick. "You'll break my heart, you will, and then Peg will be a widow."

To give effect to this pathetic speech, Dick drew out a tattered red handkerchief, and made a great demonstration of wiping his eyes.

The whole scene was so ludicrous that Ida, despite her fears and disgust, could not help laughing hysterically. She recovered herself instantly, and said, imploringly, "Oh, do let me go, and father will pay you; I'm sure he will."

"You really think he would?" said Dick.

"Oh, yes; and you'll tell her to carry me back, won't you?"

"No, he won't tell me any such thing," said Peg, gruffly; "and if he did, I wouldn't do it; so you might as well give up all thoughts of that first as last. You're going to stay here; so take off that bonnet of yours, and say no more about it."

Ida made no motion towards obeying this mandate.

"Then I'll do it for you," said Peg.

She roughly untied the bonnet, Ida struggling vainly in opposition, and taking this with the shawl, carried them to a closet, in which she placed them, and then, locking the door, deliberately put the key in her pocket.

"There," said she, "I guess you're safe for the present."

"Ain't you ever going to carry me back?" asked Ida, wishing to know the worst.

"Some years hence," said the woman, coolly. "We want you here for the present. Besides, you're not sure that they want to see you back again."

"Not glad to see me?"

"No; how do you know but your father and mother sent you off on purpose? They've been troubled with you long enough, and now they've bound you apprentice to me till you're eighteen."

"It's a lie," said Ida, firmly. "They didn't send me off, and you're a wicked woman to keep me here."

"Hoity-toity!" said the woman, pausing and looking menacingly at the child. "Have you anything more to say before I whip you?"

"Yes," said Ida, goaded to desperation; "I shall complain of you to the police, and they will put you in jail, and send me home. That is what I will do."

The nurse seized Ida by the arm, and striding with her to the closet already spoken of, unlocked it, and rudely pushing her in, locked the door after her.

"She's a spunky 'un," remarked Dick, taking the pipe from his mouth.

"Yes," said the woman, "she makes more fuss than I thought she would."

"How did you manage to come it over her family?" asked Dick.

His wife, gave substantially, the same account with which the reader is already familiar.

"Pretty well done, old woman!" exclaimed Dick, approvingly. "I always said you was a deep 'un. I always say if Peg can't find out a way to do a thing it can't be done, no how."

"How about the counterfeit coin?" asked his wife, abruptly.

"They're to supply us with all we can get off, and we are to have one half of all we succeed in passing."

"That is good," said the woman, thoughtfully. "When this girl Ida gets a little tamed down, we'll give her some business to do."

"Won't she betray us if she gets caught?"

"We'll manage that, or at least I will. I'll work on her fears so that she won't any more dare to say a word about us than to cut her own head off."

Ida sank down on the floor of the closet into which she had been thrust. Utter darkness was around her, and a darkness as black seemed to hang over all her prospects of future happiness. She had been snatched in a moment from parents, or those whom she regarded as such, and from a comfortable and happy though humble home, to this dismal place. In place of the kindness and indulgence to which she had been accustomed, she was now treated with harshness and cruelty. What wonder that her heart desponded, and her tears of childish sorrow flowed freely?



CHAPTER XI. SUSPENSE.



"It doesn't somehow seem natural," said Mr. Crump, as he took his seat at the tea-table, "to sit down without Ida. It seems as if half of the family were gone."

"Just what I've said twenty times to-day," remarked his wife. "Nobody knows how much a child is to them till they lose it."

"Not lose it, mother," said Jack, who had been sitting in a silence unusual for him.

"I didn't mean to say that," said Mrs. Crump. "I meant till they were gone away for a time."

"When you spoke of losing," said Jack, "it made me feel just as Ida wasn't coming back."

"I don't know how it is," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but that's just the feeling I've had several times to-day. I've felt just as if something or other would happen so that Ida wouldn't come back."

"That is only because she has never been away before," said the cooper, cheerfully. "It isn't best to borrow trouble; we shall have enough of it without."

"You never said a truer word, brother," said Rachel, lugubriously. "'Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward.' This world is a vale of tears. Folks may try and try to be happy, but that isn't what they're sent here for."

"Now that's where I differ from you," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "just as there are many more pleasant than stormy days, so I believe that there is much more of brightness than shadow in this life of ours, if we would only see it."

"I can't see it," said Rachel, shaking her head very decidedly.

"Perhaps you could if you tried."

"So I do."

"It seems to me, Rachel, you take more pains to look at the clouds than the sun."

"Yes," chimed in Jack; "I've noticed whenever Aunt Rachel takes up the newspaper, she always looks first at the (sic) death's, and next at the fatal accidents and steamboat explosions."

"It's said," said Aunt Rachel, with severe emphasis, "if you should ever be on board a steamboat when it exploded you wouldn't find much to laugh at."

"Yes, I should," said Jack. "I should laugh——"

"What!" said Aunt Rachel, horrified.

"On the other side of my mouth," concluded Jack. "You didn't wait till I had got through the sentence."

"I don't think it proper to make light of such matters."

"Nor I, Aunt Rachel," said Jack, drawing down the corners of his mouth. "I am willing to confess that this is a serious matter. I should feel as they said the cow did, that was thrown three hundred feet into the air."

"How was that?" inquired his mother.

"A little discouraged," replied Jack.

All laughed except Aunt Rachel, who preserved the same severe composure, and continued to eat the pie upon her plate with the air of one gulping down medicine.

So the evening passed. All seemed to miss Ida. Mrs. Crump found herself stealing glances at the smaller chair beside her own in which Ida usually sat. The cooper appeared abstracted, and did not take as much interest as usual in the evening paper. Jack was restless, and found it difficult to fix his attention upon anything. Even Aunt Rachel looked more dismal than usual, if such a thing be possible.

In the morning all felt brighter.

"Ida will be home to-night," said Mrs. Crump, cheerfully. "What an age it seems since she left us!"

"We shall know better how to appreciate her presence," said the cooper, cheerfully.

"What time do you expect her home? Did Mrs. Hardwick say?"

"Why no," said Mrs. Crump, "she didn't say, but I guess she will be along in the course of the afternoon."

"If we only knew where she had gone," said Jack, "we could tell better."

"But as we don't know," said his father, "we must wait patiently till she comes."

"I guess," said Mrs. Crump, in the spirit of a notable housewife, "I'll make up some apple-turnovers for supper to-night. There's nothing Ida likes so well."

"That's where Ida is right," said Jack, "apple-turnovers are splendid."

"They're very unwholesome," remarked Aunt Rachel.

"I shouldn't think so from the way you eat them, Aunt Rachel," retorted Jack. "You ate four the last time we had them for supper."

"I didn't think you'd begrudge me the little I eat," said Rachel, dolefully. "I didn't think you took the trouble to keep account of what I ate."

"Come, Rachel, this is unreasonable," said her brother. "Nobody begrudges you what you eat, even if you choose to eat twice as much as you do. I dare say, Jack ate more of them than you did."

"I ate six," said Jack.

Rachel, construing this into an apology, said no more; but, feeling it unnecessary to explain why she ate what she admitted to be unhealthy, added, "And if I do eat what's unwholesome, it's because life ain't of any value to me. The sooner one gets out of this vale of affliction the better."

"And the way you take to get out of it," said Jack, gravely, "is by eating apple-turnovers. Whenever you die, Aunt Rachel, we shall have to put a paragraph in the papers, headed, 'Suicide by eating apple-turnovers.'"

Rachel intimated, in reply, that she presumed it would afford Jack a great deal of satisfaction to write such a paragraph.

The evening came. Still no tidings of Ida.

The family began to feel alarmed. An indefinable sense of apprehension oppressed the minds of all. Mrs. Crump feared that Ida's mother, seeing her grown up so attractive, could not resist the temptation of keeping her.

"I suppose," she said, "that she has the best claim to her; but it will be a terrible thing for us to part with her."

"Don't let us trouble ourselves in that way," said the cooper. "It seems to me very natural that they should keep her a little longer than they intended. Besides, it is not too late for her to return to-night."

This cheered Mrs. Crump a little.

The evening passed slowly.

At length there came a knock at the door.

"I guess that is Ida," said Mrs. Crump, joyfully.

Jack seized a candle, and hastening to the door, threw it open. But there was no Ida there. In her place stood William Fitts, the boy who had met Ida in the cars.

"How do you do, Bill?" said Jack, endeavoring not to look disappointed. "Come in, and take a seat, and tell us all the news."

"Well," said William, "I don't know of any. I suppose Ida has got home."

"No," said Jack, "we expected her to-night, but she hasn't come yet."

"She told me that she expected to come back to-day," said William.

"What! have you seen her?" exclaimed all in chorus.

"Yes, I saw her yesterday noon."

"Where?"

"Why, in the cars," said William, a little surprised at the question.

"What cars?" asked the cooper.

"Why, the Philadelphia cars. Of course, you knew that was where she was going?"

"Philadelphia!" all exclaimed, in surprise.

"Yes, the cars were almost there when I saw her. Who was that with her?"

"Mrs. Hardwick, who was her old nurse."

"Anyway, I didn't like her looks," said the boy.

"That's where I agree with you," said Jack, decidedly.

"She didn't seem to want me to speak to Ida," continued William, "but hurried her off, just as quick as possible."

"There were reasons for that," said Mrs. Crump, "she wanted to keep secret her destination."

"I don't know what it was," said William; "but any how, I don't like her looks."

The family felt a little relieved by this information; and, since Ida had gone so far, it did not seem strange that she should have outstayed her time.



CHAPTER XII. HOW IDA FARED.



WE left Ida confined in a dark closet, with Peg standing guard over her.

After an hour she was released.

"Well," said Peg, grimly, "how do you feel now?"

"I want to go home," sobbed the child.

"You are at home," said the woman. "This is going to be your home now."

"Shall I never see father and mother and Jack, again?"

"Why," answered Peg, "that depends on how you behave yourself."

"Oh, if you will only let me go," said Ida, gathering hope from this remark, "I'll do anything you say."

"Do you mean this, or do you only say it for the sake of getting away?"

"Oh, I mean just what I say. Dear, good Mrs. Hardwick, just tell me what I am to do, and I will obey you cheerfully."

"Very well," said Peg, "only you needn't try to get anything out of me by calling me dear, good Mrs. Hardwick. In the first place, you don't care a cent about me. In the second place, I am not good; and finally, my name isn't Mrs. Hardwick, except in New York."

"What is it, then?" asked Ida.

"It's just Peg, no more and no less. You may call me Aunt Peg."

"I would rather call you Mrs. Hardwick."

"Then you'll have a good many years to call me so. You'd better do as I tell you if you want any favors. Now what do you say?"

"Yes, Aunt Peg," said Ida, with a strong effort to conceal her repugnance.

"That's well. Now the first thing to do, is to stay here for the present."

"Yes—aunt."

"The second is, you're not to tell anybody that you came from New York. That is very important. You understand that, do you?"

The child replied in the affirmative.

"The next is, that you're to pay for your board, by doing whatever I tell you."

"If it isn't wicked."

"Do you suppose I would ask you to do anything wicked?"

"You said you wasn't good," mildly suggested Ida.

"I'm good enough to take care of you. Well, what do you say to that? Answer me."

"Yes."

"There's another thing. You ain't to try to run away."

Ida hung down her head.

"Ha!" said Peg. "So you've been thinking of it, have you?"

"Yes," said Ida, boldly, after a moment's hesitation; "I did think I should if I got a good chance."

"Humph!" said the woman; "I see we must understand one another. Unless you promise this, back you go into the dark closet, and I shall keep you there all the time."

Ida shuddered at this fearful threat, terrible to a child of nine.

"Do you promise?"

"Yes," said the child, faintly.

"For fear you might be tempted to break your promise, I have something to show you."

She went to the cupboard, and took down a large pistol.

"There," she said, "do you see that?"

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"What is it?"

"It is a pistol, I believe."

"Do you know what it is for?"

"To shoot people with," said Ida, fixing her eyes on the weapon, as if impelled by a species of fascination.

"Yes," said the woman; "I see you understand. Well, now, do you know what I would do if you should tell anybody where you came from, or attempt to run away? Can you guess now?"

"Would you shoot me?" asked the child, struck with terror.

"Yes, I would," said Peg, with fierce emphasis. "That's just what I'd do. And what's more," she added, "even if you got away, and got back to your family in New York. I would follow you and shoot you dead in the street."

"You wouldn't be so wicked!" exclaimed Ida, appalled.

"Wouldn't I, though?" repeated Peg, significantly. "If you don't believe I would, just try it. Do you think you would like to try it?"

"No," said the child, with a shudder.

"Well, that's the most sensible thing you've said yet. Now, that you have got to be a little more reasonable, I'll tell you what I am going to do with you."

Ida looked up eagerly into her face.

"I am going to keep you with me a year. I want the services of a little girl for that time. If you serve me faithfully, I will then send you back to your friends in New York."

"Will you?" said Ida, hopefully.

"Yes. But you must mind and do what I tell you."

"O yes," said the child, joyfully.

This was so much better than she had been led to fear, that the prospect of returning home, even after a year, gave her fresh courage.

"What shall I do?" she asked, anxious to conciliate Peg.

"You may take the broom,—you will find it just behind the door,—and sweep the room."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"And after that you may wash the dishes. Or, rather, you may wash the dishes first."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"And after that I will find something for you to do."

The next morning Ida was asked if she would like to go out into the street.

This was a welcome proposition, as the sun was shining brightly, and there was little to please a child's fancy in Peg's shabby apartment.

"I am going to let you do a little shopping," said Peg. "There are various things that we want. Go and get your bonnet."

"It's in the closet," said Ida.

"O yes, where I put it. That was before I could trust you."

She went to the closet, and came back bringing the bonnet and shawl. As soon as they were ready, they emerged into the street. Ida was glad to be in the open air once more.

"This is a little better than being shut up in the closet, isn't it?" said Peg.

Ida owned that it was.

"You see you'll have a very good time of it, if you do as I bid you. I don't want to do you any harm. I want you to be happy."

So they walked along together, until Peg, suddenly pausing, laid her hand on Ida's arm, and pointing to a shop near by, said to her, "Do you see that shop?"

"Yes," said Ida.

"Well, that is a baker's shop. And now I'll tell you what to do. I want you to go in, and ask for a couple of rolls. They come at three cents apiece. Here's some money to pay for them. It is a silver dollar, as you see. You will give this to them, and they will give you back ninety-four cents in change. Do you understand'?"

"Yes," said Ida; "I think I do."

"And if they ask if you haven't anything smaller, you will say no."

"Yes, Aunt Peg."

"I will stay just outside. I want you to go in alone, so that you will get used to doing without me."

Ida entered the shop. The baker, a pleasant-looking man, stood behind the counter.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" he asked.

"I should like a couple of rolls."

"For your mother, I suppose," said the baker, sociably.

"No," said Ida; "for the woman I board with."

"Ha! a silver dollar, and a new one, too," said the baker, receiving the coin tendered in payment. "I shall have to save that for my little girl."

Ida left the shop with the two rolls and the silver change.

"Did he say anything about the money?" asked Peg, a little anxiously.

"He said he should save it for his little girl."

"Good," said the woman, approvingly; "you've done well."

Ida could not help wondering what the baker's disposal of the dollar had to do with her doing well, but she was soon thinking of other things.



CHAPTER XIII. BAD COIN.



THE baker introduced to the reader's notice in the last chapter was named Crump. Singularly enough Abel Crump, for this was his name, was a brother of Timothy Crump, the cooper. In many respects he resembled his brother. He was an excellent man, exemplary in all the relations of life, and had a good heart. He was in very comfortable circumstances, having accumulated a little property by diligent attention to his business. Like his brother, Abel Crump had married, and had one child, now about the size of Ida, that is, nine years old. She had received the name of Ellen.

When the baker closed his shop for the night he did not forget the silver dollar which he had received, or the disposal which he told Ida he should make of it.

He selected it carefully from the other coins, and slipped it into his vest pocket.

Ellen ran to meet him as he entered the house.

"What do you think I have brought you, Ellen?" said her father, smiling.

"Do tell me quick," said the child, eagerly.

"What if I should tell you it was a silver dollar?"

"Oh, father, thank you," and Ellen ran to show it to her mother.

"You got it at the shop?" asked his wife.

"Yes," said the baker; "I received it from a little girl about the size of Ellen, and I suppose it was that gave me the idea of bringing it home to her."

"Was she a pretty little girl?" asked Ellen, interested.

"Yes, she was very attractive. I could not help feeling interested in her. I hope she will come again."

This was all that passed concerning Ida at that time. The thought of her would have passed from the baker's mind, if it had not been recalled by circumstances.

Ellen, like most girls of her age, when in possession of money, could not be easy until she had spent it. Her mother advised her to lay it away, or perhaps deposit it in some Savings Bank; but Ellen preferred present gratification.

Accordingly one afternoon, when walking out with her mother, she persuaded her to go into a toy shop, and price a doll which she saw in the window. The price was sixty-two cents. Ellen concluded to take it, and tendered the silver dollar in payment.

The shopman took it into his hand, glancing at it carelessly at first, then scrutinizing it with considerable attention.

"What is the matter?" inquired Mrs. Crump. "It is good, isn't it?"

"That is what I am doubtful of," was the reply.

"It is new."

"And that is against it. If it were old, it would be more likely to be genuine."

"But you wouldn't (sic) comdemn a piece because it was new?"

"Certainly not; but the fact is, there have been lately many cases where spurious dollars have been circulated, and I suspect this is one of them. However, I can soon test it."

"I wish you, would," said Mrs. Crump. "My husband took it at his shop, and will be likely to take more unless he is placed on his guard."

The shopman retired a moment, and then reappeared.

"It is as I thought," he said. "The coin is not good."

"And can't I pass it, then?" said Ellen, disappointed.

"I am afraid not."

"Then I don't see, Ellen," said her mother, "but you will have to give up your purchase for to-day. We must tell your father of this."

Mr. Crump was exceedingly surprised at his wife's account.

"Really," he said, "I had no suspicion of this. Can it be possible that such a beautiful child could be guilty of such a crime?"

"Perhaps not," said his wife. "She may be as innocent in the matter as Ellen or myself."

"I hope so," said the baker; "it would be a pity that such a child should be given to wickedness. However, I shall find out before long."

"How?"

"She will undoubtedly come again some time, and if she offers me one of the same coins I shall know what to think."

Mr. Crump watched daily for the coming of Ida. He waited some days in vain. It was not the policy of Peg to send the child too often to the same place, as that would increase the chances of detection.

One day, however, Ida entered the shop as before.

"Good morning," said the baker. "What will you have to-day?"

"You may give me a sheet of gingerbread, sir."

The baker placed it in her hands.

"How much will it be?"

"Twelve cents."

Ida offered him another silver dollar.

As if to make change, he stepped from behind the counter, and managed to place himself between Ida and the door.

"What is your name, my child?" he asked.

"Ida, sir."

"Ida? A very pretty name; but what is your other name?"

Ida hesitated a moment, because Peg had forbidden her to use the name of Crump, and told her if the inquiry was ever made, she must answer Hardwick.

She answered, reluctantly, "My name is Ida Hardwick."

The baker observed the hesitation, and this increased his suspicions.

"Hardwick!" he repeated, musingly, endeavoring to draw from the child as much information as he could before allowing her to perceive that he suspected her. "And where do you live?"

Ida was a child of spirit, and did not understand why she should be questioned so closely. She said, with some impatience, "I am in a hurry, sir, and would like to have you hand me the change as soon as you can."

"I have no doubt of it," said the baker, his manner changing; "but you cannot go just yet."

"And why not?" asked Ida, her eyes flashing.

"Because you have been trying to deceive me."

"I trying to deceive you!" exclaimed the child, in astonishment.

"Really," thought Mr. Crump, "she does it well, but no doubt they train her to it. It is perfectly shocking, such depravity in a child."

"Don't you remember buying something here a week ago?" he said, in as stern a tone as his good nature would allow him to employ.

"Yes," said Ida, promptly; "I bought two rolls at three cents a piece."

"And what did you offer me in payment?"

"I handed you a silver dollar."

"Like this?" asked Mr. Crump, holding up the coin.

"Yes, sir."

"And do you mean to say," said the baker, sternly, "that you didn't know it was bad when you handed it to me?"

"Bad!" exclaimed Ida, in great surprise.

"Yes, spurious. It wasn't worth one tenth of a dollar."

"And is this like it?"

"Precisely."

"Indeed, sir, I didn't know anything about it," said Ida, earnestly, "I hope you will believe me when I say that I thought it was good."

"I don't know what to think," said the baker, perplexed.

"I don't know whether to believe you or not," said he. "Have you any other money?"

"That is all I have got."

"Of course, I can't let you have the gingerbread. Some would deliver you up into the hands of the police. However, I will let you go if you will make me one promise."

"Oh, anything, sir."

"You have given me a bad dollar. Will you promise to bring me a good one to-morrow?"

Ida made the required promise, and was allowed to go.



CHAPTER XIV. DOUBTS AND FEARS.



"WELL, what kept you so long?" asked Peg, impatiently, as Ida rejoined her at the corner of the street, where she had been waiting for her. "And where's your gingerbread?"

"He wouldn't let me have it," said Ida.

"And why not?"

"Because he said the money wasn't good."

"Stuff! it's good enough," said Peg, hastily. "Then we must go somewhere else."

"But he said the dollar I gave him last week wasn't good, and I promised to bring him another to-morrow, or he wouldn't have let me go."

"Well, where are you going to get your dollar to carry him?"

"Why, won't you give it to me?" said Ida, hesitatingly.

"Catch me at such nonsense! But here we are at another shop. Go in and see whether you can do any better there. Here's the money."

"Why, it's the same piece."

"What if it is?"

"I don't want to pass bad money."

"Tut, what hurt will it do?"

"It is the same as stealing."

"The man won't lose anything. He'll pass it off again."

"Somebody'll have to lose it by and by," said Ida, whose truthful perceptions saw through the woman's sophistry.

"So you've taken up preaching, have you?" said Peg, sneeringly. "Maybe you know better than I what is proper to do. It won't do to be so mighty particular, and so you'll find out if you live with me long."

"Where did you take the dollar?" asked Ida, with a sudden thought; "and how is it that you have so many of them?"

"None of your business," said her companion, roughly. "You shouldn't pry into the affairs of other people."

"Are you going to do as I told you?" she demanded, after a moment's pause.

"I can't," said Ida, pale but resolute.

"You can't," repeated Peg, furiously. "Didn't you promise to do whatever I told you?"

"Except what was wicked," interrupted Ida.

"And what business have you to decide what is wicked? Come home with me."

Peg, walked in sullen silence, occasionally turning round to scowl upon the unfortunate child, who had been strong enough, in her determination to do right, to resist successfully the will of the woman whom she had every reason to dread.

Arrived at home, Peg walked Ida into the room by the shoulder.

Dick was lounging in a chair, with the inevitable pipe in his mouth.

"Hilloa!" said he, lazily, observing his wife's movements, "what's the gal been doing, hey?"

"What's she been doing?" repeated Peg; "I should like to know what she hasn't been doing. She's refused to go in and buy some gingerbread of the baker, as I told her."

"Look here, little gal," said Dick, in a moralizing vein, "isn't this rayther undootiful conduct on your part? Ain't it a piece of ingratitude, when we go to the trouble of earning the money to pay for gingerbread for you to eat, that you ain't willing to go in and buy it?"

"I would just as lieves go in," said Ida, "if Peg would give me good money to pay for it."

"That don't make any difference," said the admirable moralist; "jest do as she tells you, and you'll do right. She'll take the risk."

"I can't!" said the child.

"You hear her?" said Peg.

"Very improper conduct!" said Dick, shaking his head. "Put her in the closet."

So Ida was incarcerated once more in the dark closet. Yet, in the midst of her desolation, there was a feeling of pleasure in thinking that she was suffering for doing right.

When Ida failed to return on the expected day, the Crumps, though disappointed, did not think it strange.

"If I were her mother," said Mrs. Crump, "and had been parted from her so long, I should want to keep her as long as I could. Dear heart! how pretty she is, and how proud her mother must be of her!"

"It's all a delusion," said Aunt Rachel, shaking her head. "It's all a delusion. I don't believe she's got a mother at all. That Mrs. Hardwick is an imposter. I knew it, and told you so at the time, but you wouldn't believe me. I never expect to set eyes on Ida again in this world."

"I do," said Jack, confidently.

"There's many a hope that's doomed to disappointment," said Aunt Rachel.

"So there is," said Jack. "I was hoping mother would have apple-pudding for dinner to-day, but she didn't."

The next day passed, and still no tidings of Ida. There was a cloud of anxiety, even upon Mr. Crump's usually placid face, and he was more silent than usual at the evening meal.

At night, after Rachel and Jack had both retired, he said, anxiously, "What do you think is the cause of Ida's prolonged absence, Mary?"

"I don't know," said Mrs. Crump, seriously. "It seems to me, if her mother wanted to keep her longer than the time she at first proposed, it would be no more than right that she should write us a line. She must know that we would feel anxious."

"Perhaps she is so taken up with Ida that she can think of nothing else."

"It may be so; but if we neither see Ida to-morrow, nor hear from her, I shall be seriously troubled."

"Suppose she should never come back," said the cooper, sadly.

"Oh, husband, don't think of such a thing," said his wife, distressed.

"We must contemplate it as a possibility," returned Timothy, gravely, "though not, I hope, as a probability. Ida's mother has an undoubted right to her; a better right than any we can urge."

"Then it would be better," said his wife, tearfully, "if she had never been placed in our charge. Then we should not have had the pain of parting with her."

"Not so, Mary," said the cooper, seriously. "We ought to be grateful for God's blessings, even if he suffers us to possess them but a short time. And Ida has been a blessing to us, I am sure. How many hours have been made happy by her childish prattle! how our hearts have been filled with cheerful happiness and affection when we have gazed upon her! That can't be taken from us, even if she is, Mary. There's some lines I met with in the paper, to-night, that express just what I feel. Let me find them."

The cooper put on his spectacles, and hunted slowly down the columns of the paper, till he came to these beautiful lines of Tennyson, which he read aloud,—

"I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all."

"There, wife," said he, as he laid down the paper; "I don't know who writ them lines, but I'm sure it's some one that's met with a great sorrow, and conquered it."

"They are beautiful," said his wife, after a pause; "and I dare say you're right, Timothy; but I hope we mayn't have reason to learn the truth of them by experience. After all, it isn't certain but that Ida will come back. We are troubling ourselves too soon."

"At any rate," said the cooper, "there is no doubt that it is our duty to take every means to secure Ida if we can. Of course, if her mother insists upon keeping her, we can't say anything; but we ought to be sure, before we yield her up, that such is the case."

"What do you mean, Timothy?" asked Mrs. Crump, with anxious interest.

"I don't know as I ought to mention it," said her husband. "Very likely there isn't anything in it, and it would only make you feel more anxious."

"You have already aroused my anxiety," said his wife. "I should feel better if you would tell me."

"Then I will," said the cooper. "I have sometimes doubted," he continued, lowering his voice, "whether Ida's mother really sent for her."

"And the letter?" queried Mrs. Crump, looking less surprised than he supposed she would.

"I thought—mind it is only a guess on my part—that Mrs. Hardwick might have got somebody to write it for her."

"It is very singular," murmured Mrs. Crump, in a tone of abstraction.

"What is singular?"

"Why, the very same thought occurred to me. Somehow, I couldn't help feeling a little suspicious of Mrs. Hardwick, though perhaps unjustly. But what object could she have in obtaining possession of Ida?"

"That I cannot conjecture; but I have come to one determination."

"And what is that?"

"Unless we learn something of Ida within a week from the time she left here, I shall go on to Philadelphia, or send Jack, and endeavor to get track of her."



CHAPTER XV. AUNT RACHEL'S MISHAPS.



THE week which had been assigned by Mr. Crump slipped away, and still no tidings of Ida. The house seemed lonely without her. Not until then, did they understand how largely she had entered into their life and thoughts. But worse even, than the sense of loss, was the uncertainty as to her fate.

When seven days had passed the cooper said, "It is time that we took some steps about finding Ida. I had intended to go to Philadelphia myself, to make inquiries about her, but I am just now engaged upon a job which I cannot very well leave, and so I have concluded to send Jack."

"When shall I start?" exclaimed Jack, eagerly.

"To-morrow morning," answered his father, "and you must take clothes enough with you to last several days, in case it should be necessary."

"What good do you suppose it will do, Timothy," broke in Rachel, "to send such a mere boy as Jack?"

"A mere boy!" repeated her nephew, indignantly.

"A boy hardly sixteen years old," continued Rachel. "Why, he'll need somebody to take care of him. Most likely you'll have to go after him."

"What's the use of provoking a fellow so, Aunt Rachel?" said Jack. "You know I'm most eighteen. Hardly sixteen! Why, I might as well say you're hardly forty, when everybody knows you're most fifty."

"Most fifty!" ejaculated the scandalized spinster. "It's a base slander. I'm only forty-three."

"Maybe I'm mistaken," said Jack, carelessly. "I didn't know exactly. I only judged from your looks."

"'Judge not that ye be not judged!'" said Rachel, whom this explanation was not likely to appease. "The world is full of calumny and misrepresentation. I've no doubt you would like to shorten my days upon the earth, but I sha'n't live long to trouble any of you. I feel that, ere the summer of life is over, I shall be gathered into the garden of the Great Destroyer."

At this point, Rachel applied a segment of a pocket-handkerchief to her eyes; but unfortunately, owing to circumstances, the effect, instead of being pathetic, as she had intended, was simply ludicrous.

It so happened that a short time previous the inkstand had been partially spilled on the table, and this handkerchief had been used to sop it up. It had been placed inadvertently on the window-seat, where it had remained till Rachel, who sat beside the window, called it into requisition. The ink upon it was by no means dry. The consequence was that, when Rachel removed it from her eyes, her face was found to be covered with ink in streaks,—mingling with the tears that were falling, for Rachel always had tears at her command.

The first intimation the luckless spinster had of her misfortune, was conveyed in a stentorian laugh from Jack, whose organ of mirthfulness, marked very large by the phrenologist, could not withstand such a provocation to laughter.

He looked intently at the dark traces of sorrow upon his aunt's face, of which she was yet unconscious—and doubling up, went into a perfect paroxysm of laughter.

Aunt Rachel looked equally amazed and indignant.

"Jack!" said his mother, reprovingly, for she had not observed the cause of his amusement. "It's improper for you to laugh at your aunt in such a rude manner."

"Oh, I can't help it, mother. It's too rich! Just look at her," and Jack went off into another paroxysm.

Thus invited, Mrs. Crump did look, and the rueful expression of Rachel, set off by the inky stains, was so irresistibly comical, that, after a little struggle, she too gave way, and followed Jack's example.

Astounded and indignant at this unexpected behavior of her sister-in-law, Rachel burst into a fresh fit of weeping, and again had recourse to the handkerchief.

"I've stayed here long enough, if even my sister-in-law, as well as my own nephew, from whom I expect nothing better, makes me her laughing-stock. Brother Timothy, I can no longer remain in your dwelling to be laughed at; I will go to the poor-house, and end my life as a pauper. If I only receive Christian burial, when I leave the world, it will be all I hope or expect from my relatives, who will be glad enough to get rid of me."

The second application of the handkerchief had so increased the effect, that Jack found it impossible to check his laughter, while the cooper, whose attention was now for the first time drawn to his sister's face, burst out in a similar manner.

This more amazed Rachel than even Mrs. Crump's merriment.

"Even you, Timothy, join in ridiculing your sister!" she exclaimed, in an 'Et tu Brute,' tone.

"We don't mean to ridicule you, Rachel," gasped Mrs. Crump, with difficulty, "but we can't help laughing——"

"At the prospect of my death," uttered Rachel. "Well, I'm a poor forlorn creetur, I know; I haven't got a friend in the world. Even my nearest relations make sport of me, and when I speak of dying they shout their joy to my face."

"Yes," gasped Jack, "that's it exactly. It isn't your death we're laughing at, but your face."

"My face!" exclaimed the insulted spinster. "One would think I was a fright, by the way you laugh at it."

"So you are," said Jack, in a state of semi-strangulation.

"To be called a fright to my face!" shrieked Rachel, "by my own nephew! This is too much. Timothy, I leave your house forever."

The excited maiden seized her hood, which was hanging from a nail, and hardly knowing what she did, was about to leave the house with no other protection, when she was arrested in her progress towards the door by the cooper, who stifled his laughter sufficiently to say: "Before you go, Rachel, just look in the glass."

Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a face which streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction.

In her first confusion, Rachel did not understand the nature of her mishaps, but hastily jumped to the conclusion that she had been suddenly stricken by some terrible disease like the plague, whose ravages in London she had read of with the interest which one of her melancholy temperament might be expected to find in it.

Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish,—

"It is the fatal plague spot! I feel it; I know it! I am marked for the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out!"

Jack broke into a fresh burst of merriment, so that an observer might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of suffocation.

"You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel; I know you will," he gasped out.

"You may order my coffin, Timothy," said Rachel, in a sepulchral tone. "I sha'n't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help. I will go up to my chamber."

"I think," said the cooper, trying to look sober, "that you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague-spots, as you call them."

Rachel turned towards him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes rested, for the first time, upon the handkerchief which she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own.

Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.

After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's approaching journey.

"I don't know," said his mother, "but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission."

"Now, mother," expostulated Jack, "you ain't going to side against me, are you?"

"There is no better plan," said Mr. Crump, quietly, "and I have sufficient confidence in Jack's shrewdness and intelligence to believe he may be trusted in this business."

Jack looked gratified by this tribute to his powers and capacity, and determined to show that he was deserving of his father's favorable opinion.

The preliminaries were settled, and it was agreed that he should set out early the next morning. He went to bed with the brightest anticipations, and with the resolute determination to find Ida if she was anywhere in Philadelphia.



CHAPTER XVI. THE FLOWER-GIRL.



HENRY BOWEN was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm, on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest success. The foremost rank in his profession was not for him. But he had good taste, a correct eye, and a skilful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular. A few months before his introduction to the reader's notice, he had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way.

"Have you any new commission this morning?" inquired the young artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coins.

"Yes," said the publisher, "I have thought of something which I think may prove attractive. Just at present, the public seem fond of pictures of children in different characters. I should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower-girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand. The attitude and incidentals I will leave to your taste. The face must, of course, be as beautiful and expressive as you can make it, where regularity of features is not sufficient. Do you comprehend my idea?"

"I believe I do," said the young man, "and hope to be able to satisfy you."

The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and though perhaps sufficiently regular in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and life-like.

"What is the matter with me?" he exclaimed, impatiently, throwing down his pencil. "Is it impossible for me to succeed? Well, I will be patient, and make one trial more."

He made another trial, that proved as unsatisfactory as those preceding.

"It is clear," he decided, "that I am not in the vein. I will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something will strike me."

He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and, descending, emerged into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task still in his thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met.

"Perhaps," it occurred to him, "I may get a hint from some face I may see. That will be better than to depend upon my fancy. Nothing, after all, is equal to the masterpieces of Nature."

But the young artist was fastidious. "It is strange," he thought, "how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes but a badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face was rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it."

It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.

Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he has despaired of it.

"The very face I have been looking for!" he exclaimed to himself. "My flower-girl is found at last!"

He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there. This afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.

"It is precisely what I want," he murmured. "Now the question comes up, whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant, will permit me to copy her face."

The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. Peg thought that in this way she should be more likely to escape suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.

The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door.

"What do you want?" said a sharp voice from within.

"I should like to see you a moment," was the reply.

Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.

"I don't know you," she said, shortly. "I never saw you before."

"I presume not," said the young man. "We have never met, I think. I am an artist."

"That is a business I don't know anything about," said Peg, abruptly. "You've come to the wrong place. I don't want to buy any pictures. I've got plenty of other ways to spend my money."

Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did not look like a patron of the arts.

"You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with you," said the artist.

"Who told you that?" queried Peg, her suspicions at once roused.

"No one told me. I saw her with you in the street."

Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that that the child was stolen—possibly he might be acquainted with the Crumps, or might be their emissary. She therefore answered, shortly,—

"People that are seen walking together don't always live together."

"But I saw the child entering this house with you."

"What if you did?" demanded Peg, defiantly.

"I was about," said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, and desiring to set matters right, "I was about to make a proposition which might prove advantageous to both of us."

"Eh!" said Peg, catching at the hint. "Tell me what it is, and perhaps we may come to terms."

"It is simply this," said Bowen, "I am, as I told you, an artist. Just now I am employed to sketch a flower-girl, and in seeking for a face such as I wished to sketch from, I was struck by that of your child."

"Of Ida?"

"Yes, if that is her name. I will pay you five dollars for the privilege of copying it."

Peg was fond of money, and the prospect of earning five dollars through Ida's instrumentality, so easily, blinded her to the possibility that this picture might prove a means of discovery to her friends.

"Well," said she, more graciously, "if that's all you want, I don't know as I have any objections. I suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere."

"I should prefer to have her come to my studio."

"I sha'n't let her come," said Peg, decidedly.

"Then I will consent to your terms, and come here."

"Do you want to begin now?"

"I should like to do so."

"Come in, then. Here, Ida, I want you."

"Yes, Peg."

"This young man wants to copy your face."

Ida looked surprised.

"I am an artist," said the young man, with a reassuring smile. "I will endeavor not to try your patience too much. Do you think you can stand still for half an hour, without much fatigue?"

Ida was easily won by kindness, while she had a spirit which was roused by harshness. She was prepossessed at once in favor of the young man, and readily assented.

He kept her in pleasant conversation while with a free, bold hand, he sketched the outlines of her face and figure.

"I shall want one more sitting," he said. "I will come to-morrow at this time."

"Stop a minute," said Peg. "I should like the money in advance. How do I know that you will come again?"

"Certainly, if you prefer it," said the young man, opening his pocket-book.

"What strange fortune," he thought, "can have brought these two together? Surely there can be no relationship."

The next day he returned and completed his sketch, which was at once placed in the hands of the publisher, eliciting his warm approval.



CHAPTER XVII. JACK OBTAINS INFORMATION.



JACK set out with that lightness of heart and keen sense of enjoyment that seem natural to a young man of eighteen on his first journey. Partly by cars, partly by boat, he traveled, till in a few hours he was discharged, with hundreds of others, at the depot in Philadelphia.

Among the admonitions given to Jack on leaving home, one was prominently in his mind, to beware of imposition, and to be as economical as possible.

Accordingly he rejected all invitations to ride, and strode along, with his carpet-bag in hand, though, sooth to say, he had very little idea whether he was steering in the right direction for his uncle's shop. By dint of diligent and persevering inquiry he found it at length, and, walking in, announced himself to the worthy baker as his nephew Jack.

"What, are you Jack?" exclaimed Mr. Abel Crump, pausing in his labor; "well, I never should have known you, that's a fact. Bless me, how you've grown! Why, you're most as big as your father, ain't you?"

"Only half an inch shorter," returned Jack, complacently.

"And you're—let me see, how old are you?"

"Eighteen, that is, almost; I shall be in two months."

"Well, I'm glad to see you, Jack, though I hadn't the least idea of your raining down so unexpectedly. How's your father and mother and Rachel, and your adopted sister?"

"Father and mother are pretty well," answered Jack, "and so is Aunt Rachel," he added, smiling; "though she ain't so cheerful as she might be."

"Poor Rachel!" said Abel, smiling also, "all things look upside down to her. I don't suppose she's wholly to blame for it. Folks differ constitutionally. Some are always looking on the bright side of things, and others can never see but one side, and that's the dark one."

"You've hit it, uncle," said Jack, laughing. "Aunt Rachel always looks as if she was attending a funeral."

"So she is, my boy," said Abel Crump, gravely, "and a sad funeral it is."

"I don't understand you, uncle."

"The funeral of her affections,—that's what I mean. Perhaps you mayn't know that Rachel was, in early life, engaged to be married to a young man whom she ardently loved. She was a different woman then from what she is now. But her lover deserted her just before the wedding was to have come off, and she's never got over the disappointment. But that isn't what I was going to talk about. You haven't told me about your adopted sister."

"That's what I've come to Philadelphia about," said Jack, soberly. "Ida has been carried off, and I've been sent in search of her."

"Been carried off!" exclaimed his uncle, in amazement. "I didn't know such things ever happened in this country. What do you mean?"

In answer to this question Jack told the story of Mrs. Hardwick's arrival with a letter from Ida's mother, conveying the request that the child might, under the guidance of the messenger, be allowed to pay her a visit. To this, and the subsequent details, Abel Crump listened with earnest attention.

"So you have reason to think the child is in (sic) Phildelphia?" he said, musingly.

"Yes," said Jack, "Ida was seen in the cars, coming here, by a boy who knew her in New York."

"Ida!" repeated his Uncle Abel, looking up, suddenly.

"Yes. You know that's my sister's name, don't you?"

"Yes, I dare say I have known it; but I have heard so little of your family lately, that I had forgotten it. It is rather a singular circumstance."

"What is singular!"

"I will tell you," said his uncle. "It may not amount to anything, however. A few days since, a little girl came into my shop to buy a small amount of bread. I was at once favorably impressed with her appearance. She was neatly dressed, and had a very sweet face."

"What was her name?" inquired Jack.

"That I will tell you by and by. Having made the purchase, she handed me in payment a silver dollar. 'I'll keep that for my little girl,' thought I at once. Accordingly, when I went home at night, I just took the dollar out the till, and gave it to her. Of course she was delighted with it, and, like a child, wanted to spend it at once. So her mother agreed to go out with her the next day. Well, they selected some nicknack or other, but when they came to pay for it the dollar proved to be spurious."

"Spurious!"

"Yes, bad. Got up, no doubt, by a gang of coiners. When they told me of this I thought to myself, 'Can it be that this little girl knew what she was about when she offered me that money?' I couldn't think it possible, but decided to wait till she came again."

"Did she come again?"

"Yes, only day before yesterday. This time she wanted some gingerbread, so she said. As I thought likely, she offered me another dollar just like the other. Before letting her know that I had discovered the imposition I asked her one or two questions, with the idea of finding out as much as possible about her. When I told her the coin was a bad one, she seemed very much surprised. It might have been all acting, but I didn't think so then. I even felt pity for her and let her go on condition that she would bring me back a good dollar in place of the bad one the next day. I suppose I was a fool for doing so, but she looked so pretty and innocent that I couldn't make up my mind to speak or harshly to her. But I'm afraid that I was deceived, and that she is an artful character, after all."

"Then she didn't come back with the good money?" said Jack.

"No, I haven't seen her since; and, what's more, I don't think it very likely she will venture into my shop at present."

"What name did she give you?" asked Jack.

"Haven't I told you? It was the name that made me think of telling you. It was Ida Hardwick."

"Ida Hardwick!" exclaimed Jack, bounding from his chair, somewhat to his uncle's alarm.

"Yes, Ida Hardwick. But that hasn't anything to do with your Ida, has it?"

"Hasn't it, though?" said Jack. "Why, Mrs. Hardwick was the woman that carried her away."

"Mrs. Hardwick—her mother!"

"No, not her mother. She was, or at least she said she was, the woman that took care of Ida before she was brought to us."

"Then you think that Ida Hardwick may be your missing sister?"

"That's what I don't know," said Jack. "If you would only describe her, Uncle Abel, I could tell better."

"Well," said Mr. Abel Crump, thoughtfully, "I should say this little girl might be eight or nine years old."

"Yes," said Jack, nodding; "what color were her eyes?"

"Blue."

"So are Ida's."

"A small mouth, with a very sweet expression."

"Yes."

"And I believe her dress was a light one, with a blue ribbon about her waist. She also had a brown scarf about her neck, if I remember rightly."

"That is exactly the way Ida was dressed when she went away. I am sure it must be she."

"Perhaps," suggested his uncle, "this woman, though calling herself Ida's nurse, was really her mother."

"No, it can't be," said Jack, vehemently. "What, that ugly, disagreeable woman, Ida's mother! I won't believe it. I should just as soon expect to see strawberries growing on a thorn-bush. There isn't the least resemblance between them."

"You know I have not seen Mrs. Hardwick, so I cannot judge on that point."

"No great loss," said Jack. "You wouldn't care much about seeing her again. She is a tall, gaunt, disagreeable looking woman; while Ida is fair, and sweet looking. I didn't fancy this Mrs. Hardwick when I first set eyes on her. Aunt Rachel was right, for once."

"What did she think?"

"She took a dislike to her, and declared that it was only a plot to get possession of Ida; but then, that was what we expected of Aunt Rachel."

"Still, it seems difficult to imagine any satisfactory motive on the part of this woman, supposing she is not Ida's mother."

"Mother, or not," returned Jack, "she's got possession of Ida; and, from all that you say, she is not the best person to bring her up. I am determined to rescue Ida from this she-dragon. Will you help me, uncle?"

"You may count upon me, Jack, for all I can do."

"Then," said Jack, with energy, "we shall succeed. I feel sure of it. 'Where there's a will there's a way,' you know."



CHAPTER XVIII. FINESSE.



THE next thing to be done by Jack was, of course, in some way to obtain a clew to the whereabouts of Peg, or Mrs. Hardwick, to use the name by which he knew her. No mode of proceeding likely to secure this result occurred to him, beyond the very obvious one of keeping in the street as much as possible, in the hope that chance might bring him face to face with the object of his pursuit.

Fortunately her face was accurately daguerreotyped in his memory, so that he felt certain of recognizing her, under whatever circumstances they might meet.

In pursuance of this, the only plan which suggested itself, Jack became a daily promenader in Chestnut and other streets. Many wondered what could be the object of the young man who so persistently frequented the thoroughfares. It was observed that, while he paid no attention to young ladies, he scrutinized the faces of all middle-aged or elderly women whom he met, a circumstance likely to attract remark, in the case of a well-made youth like Jack.

Several days passed, and, although he only returned to his uncle's house at the hour of meals, he had the same report to bring on each occasion.

"I am afraid," said the baker, "it will be as hard as finding a needle in a hay-stack, to hope to meet the one you seek, among so many faces."

"There's nothing like trying," answered Jack, courageously. "I'm not going to give up yet awhile."

He sat down and wrote the following note, home:—

"DEAR PARENTS:

"I arrived in Philadelphia safe, and am stopping at Uncle Abel's. He received me very kindly. I have got track of Ida, though I have not found her yet. I have learned as much as this, that this Mrs. Hardwick—who is a double distilled she-rascal—probably has Ida in her clutches, and has sent her on two occasions to my uncle's. I am spending most of my time in the streets, keeping a good lookout for her. If I do meet her, see if I don't get Ida away from her. But it may take some time. Don't get discouraged, therefore, but wait patiently. Whenever anything new turns up you will receive a line from your dutiful son

"JACK."

In reply to this letter, or rather note, Jack received an intimation that he was not to cease his efforts as long as a chance remained to find Ida.

The very day after the reception of this letter, as Jack was sauntering along the street, he suddenly perceived in front of him a form which at once reminded him of Mrs. Hardwick. Full of hope that this might be so, he bounded forward, and rapidly passed the suspected person, turned suddenly round, and confronted Ida's nurse.

The recognition was mutual. Peg was taken aback by this unexpected encounter.

"Her first impulse was to make off, but the young man's resolute expression warned her that this would prove in vain.

"Mrs. Hardwick!" said Jack.

"You are right," said she, nodding, "and you, if I am not mistaken, are John Crump, the son of my worthy friends in New York."

"Well," ejaculated Jack, internally, "if that doesn't beat all for coolness."

"My name is Jack," he said, aloud.

"Indeed! I thought it might be a nickname."

"You can't guess what I came here for," said Jack, with an attempt at sarcasm, which utterly failed of its effect.

"To see your sister Ida, I presume," said Peg, coolly.

"Yes," said Jack, amazed at the woman's composure.

"I thought some of you would be coming on," said Peg, whose prolific genius had already mapped out her course.

"You did?"

"Yes, it was only natural. But what did your father and mother say to the letter I wrote them?"

"The letter you wrote them!"

"The letter in which I wrote that Ida's mother had been so pleased with the appearance and manners of her child, that she could not resolve to part with her, and had determined to keep her for the present."

"You don't mean to say," said Jack, "that any such letter as that has been written?"

"What, has it not been received?" inquired Peg, in the greatest apparent astonishment.

"Nothing like it," answered Jack. "When was it written?"

"The second day after Ida's arrival," replied Peg, unhesitatingly.

"If that is the case," returned Jack, not knowing what to think, "it must have miscarried."

"That is a pity. How anxious you all must have felt!" remarked Peg, sympathizingly.

"It seemed as if half the family were gone. But how long does Ida's mother mean to keep her?"

"A month or six weeks," was the reply.

"But," said Jack, his suspicions returning, "I have been told that Ida has twice called at a baker's shop in this city, and, when asked what her name was, answered Ida Hardwick.' You don't mean to say that you pretend to be her mother?"

"Yes, I do," returned Peg, calmly.

"It's a lie," said Jack, vehemently. "She isn't your daughter."

"Young man," said Peg, with wonderful self-command, "you are exciting yourself to no purpose. You asked me if I pretended to be her mother. I do pretend; but I admit, frankly, that it is all pretence."

"I don't understand what you mean," said Jack, mystified.

"Then I will take the trouble to explain it to you. As I informed your father and mother, when in New York, there are circumstances which stand in the way of Ida's real mother recognizing her as her own child. Still, as she desires her company, in order to avert all suspicion, and prevent embarrassing questions being asked, while she remains in Philadelphia she is to pass as my daughter."

This explanation was tolerably plausible, and Jack was unable to gainsay it, though it was disagreeable to him to think of even a nominal connection between Ida and the woman before him.

"Can I see Ida?" asked Jack, at length.

To his great joy, Peg replied, "I don't think there can be any objection. I am going to the house now. Will you come now, or appoint some other time?"

"I will go now by all means," said Jack, eagerly. "Nothing should stand in the way of seeing Ida."

A grim smile passed over the nurse's face.

"Follow me, then," she said. "I have no doubt Ida will be delighted to see you."

"Dear Ida!" said Jack. "Is she well, Mrs. Hardwick?"

"Perfectly well," answered Peg. "She has never been in better health than since she has been in Philadelphia."

"I suppose," said Jack, with a pang, "that she is so taken up with her new friends that she has nearly forgotten her old friends in New York."

"If she did," said Peg, sustaining her part with admirable self-possession, "she would not deserve to have friends at all. She is quite happy here, but she will be very glad to return to New York to those who have been so kind to her."

"Really," thought Jack; "I don't know what to make of this Mrs. Hardwick. She talks fair enough, if her looks are against her. Perhaps I have misjudged her, after all."



CHAPTER XIX. CAUGHT IN A TRAP.



JACK and his guide paused in front of a three-story brick building of respectable appearance.

"Does Ida's mother live here?" interrogated Jack.

"Yes," said Peg, coolly. "Follow me up the steps."

The woman led the way, and Jack followed.

The former rang the bell. An untidy servant girl made her appearance.

"We will go up-stairs, Bridget," said Peg.

Without betraying any astonishment, the servant conducted them to an upper room, and opened the door.

"If you will go in and take a seat," said Peg, "I will send Ida to you immediately."

She closed the door after him, and very softly slipped the bolt which had been placed on the outside. She then hastened downstairs, and finding the proprietor of the house, who was a little old man with a shrewd, twinkling eye, and a long aquiline nose, she said to this man, who was a leading spirit among the coiners into whose employ she and her husband had entered, "I want you to keep this lad in confinement, until I give you notice that it will be safe to let him go."

"What has he done?" asked the old man.

"He is acquainted with a secret dangerous to both of us," answered Peg, with intentional prevarication; for she knew that, if it were supposed that she only had an interest in Jack's detention, they would not take the trouble to keep him.

"Ha!" exclaimed the old man; "is that so? Then, I warrant me, he can't get out unless he has sharp claws."

"Fairly trapped, my young bird," thought Peg, as she hastened away; "I rather think that will put a stop to your troublesome interference for the present. You haven't lived quite long enough to be a match for old Peg. You'll find that out by and by. Ha, ha! won't your worthy uncle, the baker, be puzzled to know why you don't come home to-night?"

Meanwhile Jack, wholly unsuspicious that any trick had been played upon him, seated himself in a rocking-chair, waiting impatiently for the coming of Ida, whom he was resolved to carry back with him to New York if his persuasions could effect it.

Impelled by a natural curiosity he examined, attentively, the room in which he was seated. It was furnished moderately well; that is, as well as the sitting-room of a family in moderate circumstances. The floor was covered with a plain carpet. There was a sofa, a mirror, and several chairs covered with hair-cloth were standing stiffly at the windows. There were one or two engravings, of no great artistic excellence, hanging against the walls. On the centre-table were two or three books. Such was the room into which Jack had been introduced.

Jack waited patiently for twenty minutes. Then he began to grow impatient.

"Perhaps Ida is out," thought our hero; "but, if she is, Mrs. Hardwick ought to come and let me know."

Another fifteen minutes passed, and still Ida came not.

"This is rather singular," thought Jack. "She can't have told Ida that I am here, or I am sure she would rush up at once to see her brother Jack."

At length, tired of waiting, and under the impression that he had been forgotten, Jack walked to the door, and placing his hand upon the latch, attempted to open it.

There was a greater resistance than he had anticipated.

Supposing that it must stick, he used increased exertion, but the door perversely refused to open.

"Good heavens!" thought Jack, the real state of the case flashing upon him, "is it possible that I am locked in?"

To determine this he employed all his strength, but the door still resisted. He could no longer doubt.

He rushed to the windows. There were two in number, and looked out upon a court in the rear of the house. No part of the street was visible from them; therefore there was no hope of drawing the attention of passers-by to his situation.

Confounded by this discovery, Jack sank into his chair in no very enviable state of mind.

"Well," thought he, "this is a pretty situation for me to be in! I wonder what father would say if he knew that I was locked up like a prisoner. And then to think I let that treacherous woman, Mrs. Hardwick, lead me so quietly into a snare. Aunt Rachel was about right when she said I wasn't fit to come alone. I hope she'll never find out this adventure of mine; I never should hear the last of it."

Jack's mortification was extreme. His self-love was severely wounded by the thought that a woman had got the better of him, and he resolved, if he ever got out, that he would make Mrs. Hardwick suffer, he didn't quite know how, for the manner in which she had treated him.

Time passed. Every hour seemed to poor Jack to contain at least double the number of minutes which are usually reckoned to that division of time. Moreover, not having eaten for several hours, he was getting hungry.

A horrible suspicion flashed across his mind. "The wretches can't mean to starve me, can they?" he asked himself, while, despite his constitutional courage, he could not help shuddering at the idea.

He was unexpectedly answered by the sliding of a little door in the wall, and the appearance of the old man whose interview with Peg has been referred to.

"Are you getting hungry, my dear sir?" he inquired, with a disagreeable smile upon his features.

"Why am I confined here?" demanded Jack, in a tone of irritation.

"Why are you confined?" repeated his interlocutor. "Really, one would think you did not find your quarters comfortable."

"I am so far from finding them comfortable that I insist upon leaving them immediately," returned Jack.

"Then all you have got to do is to walk through that door.

"It is locked; I can't open it."

"Can't open it!" repeated the old man, with another disagreeable leer; "perhaps, then, it will be well for you to wait till you are strong enough."

Irritated by this reply, Jack threw himself spitefully against the door, but to no purpose.

The old man laughed in a cracked, wheezing way.

"Good fellow!" said he, encouragingly, "try it again! Won't you try it again? Better luck next time."

Jack throw himself sullenly into a chair.

"Where is the woman that brought me here?" he asked.

"Peg? Oh, she couldn't stay. She had important business to transact, my young friend, and so she has gone; but don't feel anxious. She commended you to our particular attention, and you will be just as well treated as if she were here."

This assurance was not very well calculated to comfort Jack.

"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he asked, desperately, wishing to learn the worst at once.

"Really, my young friend, I couldn't say. We are very hospitable, very. We always like to have our friends with us as long as possible."

Jack groaned internally at the prospect before him.

"One question more," he said, "will you tell me if my sister Ida is in this house?"

"Your sister Ida!" repeated the old man, surprised in his turn.

"Yes," said Jack; believing, his astonishment feigned. "You needn't pretend that you don't know anything about her. I know that she is in your hands."

"Then if you know so much," said the other, shrugging his shoulders, "there is no need of asking."

Jack was about to press the question, but the old man, anticipating him, pointed to a plate of food which he pushed in upon a shelf, just in front of the sliding door, and said: "Here's some supper for you. When you get ready to go to bed you can lie down on the sofa. Sorry we didn't know of your coming, or we would have got our best bed-chamber ready for you. Good-night, and pleasant dreams!"

Smiling disagreeably he slid to the door, bolted it, and disappeared, leaving Jack more depressed, if possible, than before.



CHAPTER XX. JACK IN CONFINEMENT.



THE anxiety of Mr. Abel Crump's family, when Jack failed to return at night, can be imagined. They feared that he had fallen among unscrupulous persons, of whom there is no lack in every large city, and that some ill had come to him. The baker instituted immediate inquiries, but was unsuccessful in obtaining any trace of his nephew. He resolved to delay as long as possible communicating the sad intelligence to his brother Timothy, who he knew would be quite (sic) overwhelwed by this double blow.

In the mean time, let us see how Jack enjoyed himself. We will look in upon him after he has been confined four days. To a youth as active as himself, nothing could be more wearisome. It did not add to his cheerfulness to reflect that Ida was in the power of the one who had brought upon him his imprisonment, while he was absolutely unable to help her. He did not lack for food. This was brought him three times a day. His meals, in fact, were all he had to look forward to, to break the monotony of his confinement. The books upon the table were not of a kind likely to interest him, though he had tried to find entertainment in them.

Four days he had lived, or rather vegetated in this way. His spirit chafed against the confinement.

"I believe," thought he, "I would sooner die than be imprisoned for a long term. Yet," and here he sighed, "who knows what may be the length of my present confinement? They will be sure to find some excuse for retaining me."

While he was indulging in these uncomfortable reflections, suddenly the little door in the wall, previously referred to, slid open, and revealed the old man who had first supplied him with food. To explain the motive of his present visit, it will be remembered that he was under a misapprehension in regard to the cause of Jack's confinement. He naturally supposed that our hero was acquainted with the unlawful practises of the gang of coiners with which he was connected.

The old man, whose name was Foley, had been favorably impressed by the bold bearing of Jack, and the idea had occurred to him that he might be able to win him as an accomplice. He judged, that if once induced to join them, he would prove eminently useful. Another motive which led him to favor this project was, that it would be very embarrassing to be compelled to keep Jack in perpetual custody, as well as involve a considerable expense.

Jack was somewhat surprised at the old man's visit.

"How long are you going to keep me cooped up here?" he inquired, impatiently.

"Don't you find your quarters comfortable?" asked Foley.

"As comfortable as any prison, I suppose."

"My young friend, don't talk of imprisonment. You make me shudder. You must banish all thoughts of such a disagreeable subject."

"I wish I could," groaned poor Jack.

"Consider yourself as my guest, whom I delight to entertain."

"But, I don't like the entertainment."

"The more the pity."

"How long is this going to last? Even a prisoner knows the term of his imprisonment."

"My young friend," said Foley, "I do not desire to control your inclinations. I am ready to let you go whenever you say the word."

"You are?" returned Jack, incredulously. "Then suppose I ask you to let me go immediately."

"Certainly, I will; but upon one condition."

"What is it?"

"It so happens, my young friend, that you are acquainted with a secret which might prove troublesome to me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Jack, mystified.

"Yes; you see I have found it out. Such things do not escape me."

"I don't know what you mean," returned Jack, perplexed.

"No doubt, no doubt,", said Foley, cunningly. "Of course, if I should tell you that I was in the coining business, it would be altogether new to you."

"On my honor," said Jack, "this is the first I knew of it. I never saw or heard of you before I came into this house."

"Could Peg be mistaken?" thought Foley. "But no, no; he is only trying to deceive me. I am too old a bird to be caught with such chaff."

"Of course, I won't dispute your word, my young friend," he said, softly; "but there is one thing certain; if you didn't know it before you know it now."

"And you are afraid that I shall denounce you to the police."

"Well, there is a possibility of that. That class of people have a little prejudice against us, though we are only doing what everybody wants to do, making money."

The old man chuckled and rubbed his hands at this joke, which he evidently considered a remarkably good one.

Jack reflected a moment.

"Will you let me go if I will promise to keep your secret?" he asked.

"How could I be sure you would do it?"

"I would pledge my word."

"Your word!" Foley snapped his fingers in derision. "That is not sufficient."

"What will be?"

"You must become one of us."

"One of you!"

Jack started in surprise at a proposition so unexpected.

"Yes. You must make yourself liable to the same penalties, so that it will be for your own interest to keep silent. Otherwise we cannot trust you."

"And suppose I decline these terms," said Jack.

"Then I shall be under the painful necessity of retaining you as my guest."

Foley smiled disagreeably.

Jack walked the room in perturbation. He felt that imprisonment would be better than liberty, on such terms. At the same time he did not refuse unequivocally, as possibly stricter watch than ever might be kept over him.

He thought it best to temporize.

"Well, what do you say?" asked the old man.

"I should like to take time to reflect upon your proposal," said Jack. "It is of so important a character that I do not like to decide at once."

"How long do you require?"

"Two days," returned Jack. "If I should come to a decision sooner, I will let you know."

"Agreed. Meanwhile can I do anything to promote your comfort? I want you to enjoy yourself as well as you can under the circumstances."

"If you have any interesting books, I wish you would send them up. It is rather dull staying here with nothing to do."

"You shall have something to do as soon as you please, my young friend. As to books, we are not very bountifully supplied with that article. We ain't any of us college graduates, but I will see what I can do for you in that way. I'll be back directly."

Foley disappeared, but soon after returned, laden with one or two old magazines, and a worn copy of the "Adventures of Baron Trenck."

It may be that the reader has never encountered a copy of this singular book. Baron Trenck was several times imprisoned for political offences, and this book contains an account of the manner in which he succeeded, in some cases after years of labor, in breaking from his dungeon. His feats in this way are truly wonderful, and, if not true, at least they have so very much similitude that they find no difficulty in winning the reader's credence.

Such was the book which Foley placed in Jack's hands. He must have been in ignorance of the character of the book, since it was evident to what thoughts it would lead the mind of the prisoner.

Jack read the book with intense interest. It was just such a one as he would have read with avidity under any circumstances. It gratified his taste for adventure, and he entered heart and soul into the Baron's plans, and felt a corresponding gratification when he succeeded. When he completed the perusal of the fascinating volume, he thought, "Why cannot I imitate Baron Trenck? He was far worse off than I am. If he could succeed in overcoming so many obstacles, it is a pity if I cannot find some means of escape."

He looked about the room in the hope that some plan might be suggested.



CHAPTER XXI. THE PRISONER ESCAPES.



TO give an idea of the difficulties of Jack's situation, let it be repeated that there was but one door to the room, and this was bolted on the outside. The room was in the second story. The only two windows looked out upon a court. These windows were securely fastened. Still a way might have been devised to break through them, if this would at all have improved his condition. Of this, however, there seemed but little chance. Even if he had succeeded in getting safely into the court, there would have been difficulty and danger in getting into the street.

All these considerations passed through Jack's mind, and occasioned him no little perplexity. He began to think that the redoubtable Baron Trenck himself might have been puzzled, if placed under similar circumstances.

At length this suggestion occurred to him: Why might he not cut a hole through the door, just above or below the bolt, sufficiently large for him to thrust his hand through, and slip it back? Should he succeed in this, he would steal down stairs, and as, in all probability, the key would be in the outside door, he could open it, and then he would be free.

With hope springing up anew in his heart, he hastened to the door and examined it. It was of common strength. He might, perhaps, have been able to kick it open, but of course this was not to be thought of, as the noise would at once attract the attention of those interested in frustrating his plans.

Fortunately, Jack was provided with a large, sharp jack-knife. He did not propose, however, to commence operations at present. In the daytime he would be too subject to a surprise. With evening, he resolved to commence his work. He might be unsuccessful, and subjected, in consequence, to a more rigorous confinement; but of this he must run the risk. "Nothing venture, nothing have."