Jack awaited the coming of evening with impatience. The afternoon had never seemed so long.

It came at last—a fine moonlight night. This was fortunate, for his accommodating host, from motives of economy possibly, was not in the habit of providing him with a candle.

Jack thought it prudent to wait till he heard the city clocks pealing the hour of twelve. By this time, as far as he could see from his windows, there were no lights burning, and all who occupied the building were probably asleep.

He selected that part of the door which he judged to be directly under the bolt, and began to cut away with his knife. The wood was soft, and easy of excavation. In the course of half an hour Jack had cut a hole sufficiently large to pass his hand through, but found that, in order to reach the bolt, he must enlarge it a little. This took him fifteen minutes longer.

His efforts were crowned with success. As the city clock struck one Jack softly drew back the bolt, and, with a wild throb of joy, felt that freedom was half regained. But his (sic) embarassments were not quite at an end. Opening the door, he found himself in the entry, but in the darkness. On entering the house he had not noticed the location of the stairs, and was afraid that some noise or stumbling might reveal to Foley the attempted escape of his prisoner. He took off his boots, and crept down-stairs in his stocking feet. Unfortunately he had not kept the proper bearing in his mind, and the result was, that he opened the door of a room on one side of the front door. It was used as a bedroom. At the sound of the door opening, the occupant of the bed, Mr. Foley himself, called out, drowsily, "Who's there?"

Jack, aware of his mistake, precipitately retired, and concealed himself under the front stairs, a refuge which his good fortune led him to, for he could see absolutely nothing.

The sleeper, just awakened, was naturally a little confused in his ideas. He had not seen Jack. He had merely heard the noise, and thought he saw the door moving. But of this he was not certain. To make sure, however, he got out of bed, and opening wide the door of his room, called out, "Is anybody there?"

Jack had excellent reasons for not wishing to volunteer an answer to this question. One advantage of the opened door (for there was a small oil lamp burning in the room) was to reveal to him the nature of the mistake he had made, and to show him the front door in which, by rare good fortune, he could discover the key in the lock.

Meanwhile the old man, to make sure that all was right, went up-stairs, far enough to see that the door of the apartment in which Jack had been confined was closed. Had he gone up to the landing he would have seen the aperture in the door, and discovered the hole, but he was sleepy, and anxious to get back to bed, which rendered him less watchful.

"All seems right," he muttered to himself, and re-entered the bed-chamber, from which Jack could soon hear the deep, regular breathing which indicated sound slumber. Not till then did he creep cautiously from his place of concealment, and advancing stealthily to the front door, turn the key, and step out into the faintly-lighted street. A delightful sensation thrilled our hero, as he felt the pure air fanning his cheek.

"Nobody can tell," thought he, "what a blessed thing freedom is till he has been cooped up, as I have been, for the last week. Won't the old man be a little surprised to find, in the morning, that the bird has flown? I've a great mind to serve him a little trick."

So saying, Jack drew the key from its place inside, and locking the door after him, went off with the key in his pocket. First, however, he took care to scratch a little mark on the outside of the door, as he could not see the number, to serve as a means of identification.

This done Jack made his way as well as he could guess to the house of his uncle, the baker. Not having noticed the way by which Peg had led him to the house, he wandered at first from the straight course. At length, however, he came to Chestnut Street. He now knew where he was, and, fifteen minutes later, he was standing before his uncle's door.

Meanwhile, Abel Crump had been suffering great anxiety on account of Jack's protracted absence. Several days had now elapsed, and still he was missing. He had been unable to find the slightest trace of him.

"I am afraid of the worst," he said to his wife, on the afternoon of the day on which Jack made his escape. "I think Jack was probably rash and imprudent, and I fear, poor boy, they may have proved the death of him."

"Don't you think there is any hope? He may be confined."

"It is possible; but, at all events, I don't think it right to keep it from Timothy any longer. I've put off writing as long as I could, hoping Jack would come back, but I don't feel as if I ought to hold it back any longer. I shall write in the morning, and tell Timothy to come right on. It'll be a dreadful blow to him."

"Yes, better wait till morning, Abel. Who knows but we may hear from Jack before that time?"

The baker shook his head.

"If we'd been going to hear, we'd have heard before this time," he said.

He did not sleep very soundly that night. Anxiety for Jack, and the thought of his brother's affliction, kept him awake.

About half-past two, he heard a noise at the front door, followed by a knocking. Throwing open the window, he exclaimed, "Who's there?"

"A friend," was the answer.

"What friend?" asked the baker, suspiciously. "Friends are not very apt to come at this time of night."

"Don't you know me, Uncle Abel?" asked a cheery voice.

"Why, it's Jack, I verily believe," said Abel Crump, joyfully, as he hurried down stairs to admit his late visitor.

"Where in the name of wonder have you been, Jack?" he asked, surveying his nephew by the light of the candle.

"I've been shut up, uncle,—boarded and lodged for nothing,—by some people who liked my company better than I liked theirs. But to-night I made out to escape, and hero I am. I'll tell you all about it in the morning. Just now I'm confoundedly hungry, and if there's anything in the pantry, I'll ask permission to go in there a few minutes."

"I guess you'll find something, Jack. Take the candle with you. Thank God, you're back alive. We've been very anxious about you."



CHAPTER XXII. MR. JOHN SOMERVILLE.



PEG had been thinking.

This was the substance of her reflections. Ida, whom she had kidnapped for certain purposes of her own, was likely to prove an (sic) incumbrance rather than a source of profit. The child, her suspicions awakened in regard to the character of the money she had been employed to pass off, was no longer available for that purpose. So firmly resolved was she not to do what was wrong, that threats and persuasions were alike unavailing. Added to this was the danger of her encountering some one sent in search of her by the Crumps.

Under these circumstances, Peg bethought herself of the ultimate object which she had proposed to herself in kidnapping Ida—that of extorting money from a man who is now to be introduced to the reader.

John Somerville occupied a suite of apartments in a handsome lodging-house on Walnut Street. A man wanting yet several years of forty, he looked a greater age. Late hours and dissipation, though kept within respectable limits, had left their traces on his face. At twenty-one he inherited a considerable fortune, which, combined with some professional practice (for he was a lawyer, and not without ability), was quite sufficient to support him handsomely, and leave a considerable surplus every year. But, latterly, he had contracted a passion for gaming, and however shrewd he might be naturally, he could hardly be expected to prove a match for the wily habitues of the gaming-table, who had marked him as their prey.

The evening before he is introduced to the reader's notice he had, passed till a late hour at a fashionable gambling-house, where he had lost heavily. His reflections, on awakening, were not of the pleasantest. For the first time, within fifteen years, he realized the folly and imprudence of the course he had pursued. The evening previous he had lost a thousand dollars, for which he had given his I O U. Where to raise this money, he did not know. He bathed his aching head, and cursed his ill luck, in no measured terms. After making his toilet, he rang the bell, and ordered breakfast.

For this he had but scanty appetite. Scarcely had he finished, and directed the removal of the dishes, than the servant entered to announce a visitor.

"Is it a gentleman?" he inquired, hastily, fearing it might be a creditor. He occasionally had such visitors.

"No, sir."

"A lady?"

"No, sir."

"A child? But what could a child want of me?"

"If it's neither a gentleman, lady, nor child," said Somerville, somewhat surprised, "will you have the goodness to inform me who it is?"

"It's a woman, sir," said the servant, grinning.

"Why didn't you say so when I asked you?" said his employer, irritably.

"Because you asked if it was a lady, and this isn't—at least she don't look like one."

"You can send her up, whoever she is," said Mr. Somerville.

A moment afterwards Peg entered the apartment.

John Somerville looked at her without much interest, supposing that she might be a seamstress, or laundress, or some applicant for charity. So many years had passed since he had met with this woman, that she had passed out of his remembrance.

"Do you wish to see me about anything?" he asked, indifferently. "If so, you must be quick, for I am just going out."

"You don't seem to recognize me, Mr. Somerville," said Peg, fixing her keen black eyes upon his face.

"I can't say I do," he replied, carelessly. "Perhaps you used to wash for me once."

"I am not in the habit of acting as laundress," said the woman, proudly. It is worth noticing that she was not above passing spurious coin, and doing other things which are stamped as disreputable by the laws of the land, but her pride revolted at the imputation that she was a washer-woman.

"In that case," said Somerville, carelessly, "you will have to tell me who you are, for it is out of my power to conjecture."

"Perhaps the name of Ida will assist your recollection," said Peg, composedly.

"Ida!" repeated John Somerville, changing color, and gazing now with attention at the woman's features.

"Yes."

"I have known several persons of that name," he said, evasively. "Of course, I can't tell which of them you refer to."

"The Ida I mean was and is a child," said Peg. "But, Mr. Somerville, there's no use in beating about the bush, when I can come straight to the point. It is now about eight years since my husband and myself were employed in carrying off a child—a female child of about a year old—named Ida. We placed it, according to your directions, on the door-step of a poor family in New York, and they have since cared for it as their own. I suppose you have not forgotten that."

John Somerville deliberated. Should he deny it or not? He decided to put a bold face on the matter.

"I remember it," said he, "and now recall your features. How have you fared since the time I employed you? Have you found your business profitable?"

"Far from it," answered Peg. "We are not yet able to retire on a competence."

"One of your youthful appearance," said Solmerville, banteringly, "ought not to think of retiring under ten years."

Peg smiled. She knew how to appreciate this speech.

"I don't care for compliments," said she, "even when they are sincere. As for my youthful appearance, I am old enough to have reached the age of discretion, and not so old as to have fallen into my second childhood."

"Compliments aside, then, will you proceed to whatever business has brought you here?"

"I want a thousand dollars."

"A thousand dollars!" repeated John Somerville. "Very likely, I should like that amount myself. You have not come here to tell me that?"

"I have come here to ask that amount of you."

"Suppose I should say that your husband is the proper person for you to apply to in such a case."

"I think I am more likely to get it out of you," answered Peg, coolly. "My husband couldn't supply me with a thousand cents, even if he were willing, which is not likely."

"Much as I am flattered by your application," said Somerville, "since it would seem to place me next in your estimation to your husband, I cannot help suggesting that it is not usual to bestow such a sum on a stranger, or even a friend, without an equivalent rendered."

"I am ready to give you an equivalent."

"Of what value?"

"I am willing to be silent."

"And how can your silence benefit me?"

John Somerville asked this question with an assumption of indifference, but his fingers twitched nervously.

"That you will be best able to estimate," said Peg.

"Explain yourself."

"I can do that in a few words. You employed me to kidnap a child. I believe the law has something to say about that. At any rate, the child's mother may have."

"What do you know about the child's mother?" demanded Somerville, hastily.

"All about her!" returned Peg, emphatically.

"How am I to know that? It is easy to claim the knowledge."

"Shall I tell you all? In the first place she married your cousin, after rejecting you. You never forgave her for this. When a year after marriage her husband died, you renewed your proposals. They were rejected, and you were forbidden to renew the subject on pain of forfeiting her friendship forever. You left her presence, determined to be revenged. With this object you sought Dick and myself, and employed us to kidnap the child. There is the whole story, briefly told."

John Somerville listened, with compressed lips and pale face.

"Woman, how came this within your knowledge?" he demanded, coarsely.

"That is of no consequence," said Peg. "It was for my interest to find out, and I did so."

"Well?"

"I know one thing more—the residence of the child's mother. I hesitated this morning whether to come here, or carry Ida to her mother, trusting to her to repay from gratitude what I demand from you, because it is your interest to comply with my request."

"You speak of carrying the child to her mother. She is in New York."

"You are mistaken," said Peg, coolly. "She is in Philadelphia."

"With you?"

"With me."

"How long has this been?"

"Nearly a fortnight."

John Somerville paced the room with hurried steps. Peg watched him carelessly. She felt that she had succeeded. He paused after awhile, and stood before her.

"You demand a thousand dollars," he said.

"I do."

"I have not that amount with me. I have recently lost a heavy sum, no matter how. But I can probably get it to-day. Call to-morrow at this time,—no, in the afternoon, and I will see what I can do for you."

"Very well," said Peg.

Left to himself, John Somerville spent some time in reflection. Difficulties encompassed him—difficulties from which he found it hard to find a way of escape. He knew how impossible it would be to meet this woman's demand. Something must be done. Gradually his countenance lightened. He had decided what that something should be.



CHAPTER XXIII. THE LAW STEPS IN.



WHEN Peg left Mr. John Somerville's apartment, it was with a high degree of satisfaction at the result of her interview. She looked upon the thousand dollars as sure to be hers. The considerations which she had urged would, she was sure, induce him to make every effort to secure her silence. With a thousand dollars, what might not be done? She would withdraw from the coining-business, for one thing. It was too hazardous. Why might not Dick and she retire to the country, lease a country-inn, and live an honest life hereafter. There were times when she grew tired of the life she lived at present. It would be pleasant to go to some place where she was not known, and enrol herself among the respectable members of the community. She was growing old; she wanted rest and a quiet home. Her early years had been passed in the country. She remembered still the green fields in which she played as a child, and to this woman, old and sin-stained, there came a yearning to have that life return.

It occurred to her to look in upon Jack, whom she had left in captivity four days before. She had a curiosity to see how he bore his confinement.

She knocked at the door, and was admitted by the old man who kept the house. Mr. Foley was looking older and more wrinkled than ever. He had been disturbed of his rest the night previous, he said.

"Well," said Peg, "and how is our prisoner?"

"Bless my soul," said Mr. Foley, "I haven't been to give him his breakfast this morning. He must be hungry. But my head is in such a state. However, I think I've secured him."

"What do you mean?"

"I have asked him to become one of us,—he's a bold lad,—and he has promised to think of it."

"He is not to be trusted," said Peg, hastily.

"You think not?"

"I know it."

"Well," said the old man, "I suppose you know him better than I do. But he's a bold lad."

"I should like to go up and see him," said Peg.

"Wait a minute, and I will carry up his breakfast."

The old man soon reappeared from the basement with some cold meat and bread and butter.

"You may go up first," he said; "you are younger than I am."

They reached the landing.

"What's all this?" demanded Peg, her quick eyes detecting the aperture in the door.

"What's what?" asked Foley.

"Is this the care you take of your prisoners?" demanded Peg, sharply. "It looks as if he had escaped."

"Escaped! Impossible!"

"I hope so. Open the door quick."

The door was opened, and the two hastily entered.

"The bird is flown," said Peg.

"I—I don't understand it," said the old man, turning pale.

"I do. He has cut a hole in the door, slipped back the bolt, and escaped. When could this have happened?"

"I don't know. Yes, I do remember, now, being disturbed last night by a noise in the entry. I got out of bed, and looked out, but could see no one."

"Did you come up-stairs?"

"Part way."

"When was this?"

"Past midnight."

"No doubt that was the time he escaped."

"That accounts for the door being locked," said the old man, thoughtfully.

"What door?"

"The outer door. When I got up this morning, I found the key had disappeared, and the door was locked. Luckily we had an extra key, and so opened it."

"Probably he carried off the other in his pocket."

"Ah, he is a bold lad,—a bold lad," said Foley.

"You may find that out to your cost. He'll be likely to bring the police about your ears."

"Do you think so?" said the old man, in alarm.

"I think it more than probable."

"But he don't know the house," said Foley, in a tone of reassurance. "It was dark when he left here, and he will not be apt to find it again."

"Perhaps not, but lie will be likely to know you when he sees you again. I advise you to keep pretty close."

"I certainly shall," said the old man, evidently alarmed by this suggestion. "What a pity that such a bold lad shouldn't be in our business!"

"Perhaps you'll wish yourself out of it before long," muttered Peg.

As if in corroboration of her words, there was a sharp ring at the door-bell.

The old man, who was constitutionally timid, turned pale, and looked helplessly at his companion.

"What is it?" he asked, apprehensively.

"Go and see."

"I don't dare to."

"You're a coward," said Peg, contemptuously. "Then I'll go."

She went down stairs, followed by the old man. She threw open the street door, but even her courage was somewhat daunted by the sight of two police officers, accompanied by Jack.

"That's the man," said Jack, pointing out Foley, who tried to conceal himself behind Mrs. Hardwick's more ample proportions.

"I have a warrant for your arrest," said one of the officers, advancing to Foley.

"Gentlemen, spare me," he said, clasping his hands. "What have I done?"

"You are charged with uttering counterfeit coin.

"I am innocent."

"If you are, that will come out on your trial."

"Shall I have to be tried?" he asked, piteously.

"Of course. If you are innocent, no harm will come to you."

Peg had been standing still, irresolute what to do. Determined upon a bold step, she made a movement to pass the officers.

"Stop!" said Jack. "I call upon you to arrest that woman. She is the Mrs. Hardwick against whom you have a warrant."

"What is all this for?" demanded Peg, haughtily. "What right have you to interfere with me?"

"That will be made known to you in due time. You are suspected of being implicated with this man."

"I suppose I must yield," said Peg, sulkily. "But perhaps you, young sir," turning to Jack, "may not be the gainer by it."

"Where is Ida?" asked Jack, anxiously.

"She is safe," said Peg, sententiously.

"You won't tell me where she is?"

"No. Why should I? I am indebted to you, I suppose, for this arrest. She shall be kept out of your way as long as it is in my power to do so."

Jack's countenance fell.

"At least you will tell me whether she is well?"

"I shall answer no questions whatever," said Mrs. Hardwick.

"Then I will find her," he said, gaining courage. "She is somewhere in the city, and sooner or later I shall find her."

Peg was not one to betray her feelings, but this arrest was a great disappointment to her. Apart from the consequences which might result from it, it would prevent her meeting with John Somerville, and obtaining from him the thousand dollars of which she had regarded herself certain. Yet even from her prison-cell she might hold over him in terrorem the threat of making known to Ida's mother the secret of her child's existence. All was not lost. She walked quietly to the carriage in waiting, while her companions, in an ecstasy of terror, seemed to have lost the power of locomotion, and had to be supported on either side.



CHAPTER XXIV. "THE FLOWER-GIRL."



"BY gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound surprise.

He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly, troubled by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody, he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his foster-sister than before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide. In his perplexity he came suddenly upon the print of the "Flower-Girl."

"Yes," said he, "that is Ida, plain enough. Perhaps they will know in the store where she is to be found."

He at once entered the store.

"Can you tell me anything about the girl that picture was taken for?" he asked, abruptly of the nearest clerk.

The clerk smiled.

"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think it would take you a long time to find the original."

"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. It is the picture of my sister."

"Of your sister!" repeated the clerk, with surprise, half incredulous.

There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout, good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of a delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,—her skin of a brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,—exhibiting a physical perfection, which it requires several generations of refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in this respect.

"Yes;" said Jack, "my sister."

"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she is."

Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes, also, were fixed upon "The Flower-Girl."

"Who is this?" she asked, hurriedly. "Is it taken from life?"

"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.

"Your sister!" said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack. In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as it seemed, disappointment.

"Yes, madam," said Jack, respectfully.

"Pardon me," she said, "there is so little family resemblance, I should hardly have supposed it."

"She is not my own sister," said Jack, "but I love her just the same."

"Do you live in (sic) Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the lady, eagerly.

"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us nearly a fortnight since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I have not been able to find her yet."

"Did you say her name was Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation.

"Yes, madam."

"My young friend," said the lady, rapidly, "I have been much interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more, but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the rest? Then we will, together, concert measures for discovering her."

"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, somewhat bashfully; for the lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with many ladies of her rank; "I shall be very much obliged to you for your advice and assistance."

"Then we will drive home at once."

Jack followed her to the street, where he saw an elegant carriage, and a coachman in livery.

With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and, at her bidding, got in himself.

"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as possible."

"Yes, madam."

"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs. Clifton. Jack afterwards ascertained that this was her name.

"About a year old, madam."

"And how long since was it?" asked the lady, bending forward with breathless interest.

"Eight years since. She is now nine."

"It must be," said the lady, in a low voice. "If it is indeed so, how will my life be blessed!"

"Did you speak, madam?"

"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted Ida."

Jack related, briefly, the circumstances, which are already familiar to the reader.

"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"

"It was at the close of December, the night before New Years."

"It is—it must be she!" ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands while tears of happy joy welled from her eyes.

"I—I do not understand," said Jack.

"My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I have every reason to believe that this child—your adopted sister—is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which you speak. From that day to this I have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead."

"It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion—the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully like Ida's. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.

"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."

"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

"Yes, madam."

"I had a picture—a daguerreotype—taken of Ida just before I lost her. I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you."

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs. Clifton to alight.

Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor which excited his wonder. He had little time to look about him, for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire, hastened down stairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

"Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?" she asked. "Did she look like this?"

"It is her image," said Jack, decidedly. "I should know it anywhere."

"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my child whom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have known it? How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I have not yet asked your name."

"My name is Crump—Jack Crump."

"Jack?" said the lady, smiling.

"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be called by another."

"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful than Ida; "as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Crump, for that would seem too formal. I will call you Jack."

To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.

"Now Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, "we must take measures immediately to discover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding her out."

Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs. Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal to impart any information as to Ida's whereabouts.

Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed.

"Do you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, at length.

"Yes, madam," said our hero. "The man who painted the picture of Ida may know where she is to be found."

"You are right," said the lady. "I should have thought of it before. I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print-store."

An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.

"I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower-Girl,'" said Mrs. Clifton.

"I am, madam."

"It was taken from life?"

"You are right."

"I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her out?"

"I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam," said the young man. "It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much beauty."

"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," said the lady. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders."

Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.

"This can't be the place, madam," he said.

"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and find out all that is needful."

Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

"We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and took away the child."

Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.

"My child, my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"

Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who had carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and more complicated than ever.



CHAPTER XXV. IDA IS FOUND.



IDA was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and not feeling quite certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had left some work for the child,—some handkerchiefs to hem for Dick,—with strict orders to keep steadily at work.

While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock at the door.

"Who's there?" asked Ida.

"A friend," was the reply.

"Mrs. Hardwick—Peg isn't at home," returned Ida. "I don't know when she will be back."

"Then I will come in and wait till she comes back," said the voice outside.

"I can't open the door," said Ida. "It's fastened on the outside."

"Yes, I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt."

Mr. John Somerville entered the room, and for the first time in eight years his glance fell upon the child whom, for so long a time, he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness.

Ida returned to the window.

"How beautiful she is!" thought Somerville, with surprise. "She inherits all her mother's rare beauty."

On the table beside Ida was a drawing.

"Whose is this?" he inquired.

"Mine," answered Ida.

"So you have learned to draw?"

"A little," answered the child, modestly.

"Who taught you? Not the woman you live with?"

"No;" said Ida.

"You have not always lived with her, I am sure."

Ida admitted that she had not.

"You lived in New York with a family named Crump, did you not?"

"Do you know father and mother?" asked Ida, with sudden hope. "Did they send you for me?"

"I will tell you that by and by, my child; but I want to ask you a few questions first. Why does this woman Peg lock you in whenever she goes away?"

"I suppose," said Ida, "she is afraid I will run away."

"Then she knows you don't want to live with her?"

"Oh, yes, she knows that," said the child, frankly. "I have asked her to send me home, but she says she won't for a year."

"And how long have you been with her?"

"About a fortnight."

"What does she make you do?"

"I can't tell what she made me do first."

"Why not?"

"Because she would be very angry."

"Suppose I should tell you that I would deliver you from her. Would you be willing to go with me?"

"And you would carry me back to my mother and father?"

"Certainly, I would restore you to your mother," said he, evasively.

"Then I will go with you."

Ida ran quickly to get her bonnet and shawl.

"We had better go at once," said Somerville. "Peg might return, and give us trouble."

"O yes, let us go quickly," said Ida, turning pale at the remembered threats of Peg.

Neither knew yet that Peg could not return if she would; that, at this very moment, she was in legal custody on a charge of a serious nature. Still less did Ida know that, in going, she was losing the chance of seeing Jack and her mother, of whose existence, even, she was not yet aware; and that he, to whose care she consigned herself so gladly, had been her worst enemy.

"I will carry you to my room, in the first place," said her companion. "You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg will, undoubtedly, be on the lookout for you, and we want to avoid all trouble."

Ida was delighted with her escape, and, with the hope of soon seeing her friends in New York, She put implicit faith in her guide, and was willing to submit to any conditions which he might impose.

On emerging into the street, her companion summoned a cab. He had reasons for not wishing to encounter any one whom he knew.

At length they reached his lodgings.

They were furnished more richly than any room Ida had yet seen; and formed, indeed, a luxurious contrast to the dark and scantily-furnished apartment which she had occupied for the last fortnight.

"Well, are you glad to get away from Peg?" asked John Somerville, giving Ida a seat at the fire.

"Oh, so glad!" said Ida.

"And you wouldn't care about going back?"

The child shuddered.

"I suppose," said she, "that Peg will be very angry. She would beat me, if she should get me back again."

"But she sha'n't. I will take good care of that."

Ida looked her gratitude. Her heart went out to those who appeared to deal kindly with her, and she felt very grateful to her companion for his instrumentality in effecting her deliverance from Peg.

"Now," said Somerville, "perhaps you will be willing to tell me what it was you were required to do."

"Yes," said Ida; "but she must never know that I told. It was to pass bad money."

"Ha!" exclaimed her companion. "Do you mean bad bills, or spurious coin?"

"It was silver dollars."

"Does she do much in that way?"

"A good deal. She goes out every day to buy things with the money."

"I am glad to learn this," said John Somerville, thoughtfully.

"Ida," said he, after a pause, "I am going out for a time. You will find books on the table, and can amuse yourself by reading; I won't make you sew, as Peg did," he said, smiling.

Ida laughed.

"Oh, yes," said she, "I like reading. I shall amuse myself very well."

Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he recommended, read awhile. Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A carriage was passing slowly, on account of a press of carriages. Ida saw a face that she knew. Forgetting her bonnet in her sudden joy, she ran down the stairs, into the street, and up to the carriage window.

"O Jack!" she exclaimed; "have you come for me?"

It was Mrs. Clifton's carriage, returning from Peg's lodgings.

"Why, it's Ida!" exclaimed Jack, almost springing through the window of the carriage. "Where did you come from, and where have you been all the time?"

He opened the door of the carriage, and drew Ida in.

Till then she had not seen the lady who sat at Jack's side.

"My child, my child! Thank God, you are restored to me," exclaimed Mrs. Clifton.

She drew the astonished child to her bosom. Ida looked up into her face. Was it Nature that prompted her to return the lady's embrace?

"My God, I thank thee!" murmured Mrs. Clifton; "for this, my child, was lost and is found."

"Ida," said Jack, "this lady is your mother."

"My mother!" said the child, bewildered. "Have I two mothers?"

"Yes, but this is your real mother. You were brought to our house when you were an infant, and we have always taken care of you; but this lady is your real mother."

Ida hardly knew whether to feel glad or sorry.

"And you are not my brother?"

"You shall still consider him your brother, Ida," said Mrs. Clifton. "Heaven forbid that I should wean your heart from the friends who have cared so kindly for you! You shall keep all your old friends, and love them as dearly as ever. You will only have one friend the more."

"Where are we going?" asked Ida, suddenly.

"We are going home."

"What will the gentleman say?"

"What gentleman?"

"The one that took me away from Peg's. Why, there he is now!"

Mrs. Clifton followed the direction of Ida's finger, as she pointed to a gentleman passing.

"Is he the one?"

"Yes, mamma," said Ida, shyly.

Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her breast. It was the first time she had ever been called mamma. It made her realize, more fully, her present happiness.

Arrived at the house, Jack's bashfulness returned. He hung back, and hesitated about going in.

Mrs. Clifton observed this.

"Jack," said she, "this house is to be your home while you remain in Philadelphia. Come in, and Thomas shall go for your baggage."

"Perhaps I had better go with him," said Jack. "Uncle Abel will be glad to know that Ida is found."

"Very well; only return soon."

"Well!" thought Jack, as he re-entered the carriage, and gave the direction to the coachman; "won't Uncle Abel be a little surprised when he sees me coming home in such style!"



CHAPTER XXVI. "NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."



MEANWHILE, Peg was passing her time wearily enough in prison. It was certainly provoking to be deprived of her freedom just when she was likely to make it most profitable. After some reflection, she determined to send for Mrs. Clifton, and reveal to her all she knew, trusting to her generosity for a recompense.

To one of the officers of the prison she communicated the intelligence that she had an important revelation to make to Mrs. Clifton, and absolutely refused to make it unless the lady would visit her in prison.

Scarcely had Mrs. Clifton returned home, after recovering her child, than the bell rang, and a stranger was introduced.

"Is this Mrs. Clifton?" he inquired.

"It is."

"Then I have a message for you."

The lady inclined her head.

"You must know, madam, that I am one of the officers connected with the City Prison. A woman was placed in confinement this morning, who says she has a most important communication to make to you, but declines to make it except to you in person."

"Can you bring her here, sir?"

"That is impossible. We will give you every facility, however, for visiting her in prison."

"It must be Peg," whispered Ida; "the woman that carried me off."

Such a request Mrs. Clifton could not refuse. She at once made ready to accompany the officer. She resolved to carry Ida with her, fearful that, unless she kept her in her immediate presence, she might disappear again as before.

As Jack had not yet returned, a hack was summoned, and they proceeded at once to the prison. Ida shuddered as she passed beneath the gloomy portal which shut out hope and the world from so many.

"This way, madam!"

They followed the officer through a gloomy corridor, until they came to the cell in which Peg was confined.

The tenant of the cell looked surprised to find Mrs. Clifton accompanied by Ida.

"How do you do, Ida?" she said, smiling grimly; "you see I've moved. Just tell your mother she can sit down on the bed. I'm sorry I haven't any rocking-chair or sofa to offer you."

"O Peg," said Ida, her tender heart melted by the woman's misfortunes; "how sorry I am to find you here!"

"Are you sorry?" asked Peg, looking at her in surprise.

"You haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy, or one of the worst."

"I can't help it," said the child, her face beaming with a divine compassion; "it must be so sad to be shut up here, and not be able to go out into the bright sunshine. I do pity you."

Peg's heart was not wholly hardened. Few are. But it was long since it had been touched as it was now by this great pity on the part of one she had injured.

"You're a good girl, Ida," she said; "and I'm sorry I've injured you. I didn't think I should ever ask forgiveness of anybody; but I do ask your forgiveness."

The child rose, and advancing towards Peg, took her large hand in (sic) her's and said, "I forgive you, Peg."

"From your heart?"

"With all my heart."

"Thank you, child. I feel better now. There have been times when I thought I should like to lead a better life."

"It is not too late now, Peg."

Peg shook her head.

"Who will trust me after I have come from here?"

"I will," said Mrs. Clifton, speaking for the first time.

"You will?"

"Yes."

"And yet you have much to forgive. But it was not my plan to steal your daughter from you. I was poor, and money tempted me."

"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?"

"One whom you know well,—Mr. John Somerville."

"Surely, you are wrong!" exclaimed Mrs. Clifton, in unbounded astonishment. "It cannot be. What object could he have had?"

"Can you think of none?" queried Peg, looking at her shrewdly.

Mrs. Clifton changed color. "Perhaps so," she said. "Go on."

Peg told the whole story, so circumstantially, that there was no room left for doubt.

"I did not believe him capable of such wickedness," she ejaculated. "It was a base, unmanly revenge. How could you lend yourself to it?"

"How could I?" repeated Peg. "Madam, you are rich. You have always had whatever wealth could procure. How can you understand the temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face, we have not the strength to resist that you have in your luxurious homes."

"Pardon me," said Mrs. Clifton, touched by these words, half bitter, half pathetic; "let me, at any rate, thank you for the service you have done me now. When you are released from your confinement, come to me. If you wish to change your mode of life and live honestly henceforth, I will give you the chance."

"You will!" said Peg, eagerly.

"I will."

"After all the injury I have done you, you will trust me still?"

"Who am I that I should condemn you? Yes, I will trust you, and forgive you."

"I never expected to hear such words," said Peg, her heart softened, and her arid eyes moistened by unwonted emotion, "least of all from you. I should like to ask one thing."

"What is it?"

"Will you let her come and see me sometimes?" she pointed to Ida as she spoke; "it will remind me that this is not all a dream—these words which you have spoken."

"She shall come," said Mrs. Clifton, "and I will come too, sometimes."

"Thank you," said Peg.

They left the prison behind them, and returned home.

"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing-room," said the servant. "He wishes to see you."

Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.

"I will go down," she said. "Ida, you will remain here."

She descended to the drawing-room, and met the man who had injured her. He had come with the resolve to stake his all upon a single cast. His fortunes were desperate. Through the mother's love for the daughter whom she had mourned so long, whom, as he believed he had it in his power to restore to her, he hoped to obtain her consent to a marriage, which would retrieve his fortunes, and gratify his ambition.

Mrs. Clifton seated herself quietly. She did not, as usual, offer him her hand. Full of his own plans, he did not notice this omission.

"How long is it since Ida was lost?" inquired Somerville.

Mrs. Clifton started in some surprise. She had not expected him to introduce this subject.

"Eight years," she said.

"And you believe she yet lives?"

"Yes, I am certain of it."

John Somerville did not understand her aright. He felt only that a mother never gives up hope.

"Yet it is a long time," he said.

"It is—a long time to suffer," she said. "How could any one have the heart to work me this great injury? For eight years I have led a sad and solitary life,—years that might have been made glad by Ida's presence."

There was something in her tone which puzzled John Somerville, but he was far enough from suspecting the truth.

"Rose," he said, after a pause. "Do you love your child well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of recovering her?"

"What sacrifice?" she asked, fixing her eyes upon him.

"A sacrifice of your feelings."

"Explain. You talk in enigmas."

"Listen, then. I, too, believe Ida to be living. Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit, promise me that you will reward my affection by your land if I succeed, and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting day nor night till I am able to place her in your arms. Then, if I succeed, may I claim my reward?"

"What reason have you for thinking you should find her?" asked Mrs. Clifton, with the same inexplicable manner.

"I think I have got a clew."

"And are you not generous enough to exert yourself without demanding of me this sacrifice?"

"No, Rose," he said, "I am not unselfish enough."

"But, consider a moment. Will not even that be poor atonement enough for the wrong you have done me,"—she spoke rapidly now,—"for the grief and loneliness and sorrow which your wickedness and cruelty have wrought?"

"I do not understand you," he said, turning pale.

"It is enough to say that I have seen the woman who is now in prison,—your paid agent,—and that I need no assistance to recover Ida. She is in my house."

What more could be said?

John Somerville rose, and left the room. His grand scheme had failed.



CHAPTER XXVII. CONCLUSION.



"I AM beginning to feel anxious about Jack," said Mrs. Crump. "It's almost a week since we heard from him. I'm afraid he's got into some trouble."

"Probably he's too busy to write," said the cooper.

"I told you so," said Rachel, in one of her usual fits of depression. "I told you Jack wasn't fit to be sent on such an errand. If you'd only taken my advice, you wouldn't have had so much worry and trouble about him now. Most likely he's got into the House of Reformation, or somewhere. I knew a young man once who went away from home, and never came back again. Nobody ever knew what became of him till his body was found in the river, half-eaten by fishes."

"How can you talk so, Rachel?" said Mrs. Crump, indignantly; "and of your own nephew, too!"

"This is a world of trial and disappointment," said Rachel; "and we might as well expect the worst, because it's sure to come."

"At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said the cooper. "No, Rachel, you are wrong. God didn't send us into the world to be melancholy. He wants us to enjoy ourselves. Now I have no idea that Jack has jumped into the river. Then again, if he has, he can swim."

"I suppose," said Rachel, "you expect him to come home in a coach and four, bringing Ida with him."

"Well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "I don't know but that is as probable as your anticipations."

Rachel shook her head dismally.

"Bless me!" said Mrs. Crump, in a tone of excitement; "there's a carriage just stopped at our door, and—yes, it is Jack, and Ida too!"

The strange (sic) fulfilment of the cooper's suggestion struck even Aunt Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage drawn, not by four horses, but by two elegant bays, standing before the door. Jack had already jumped out, and was now assisting Ida to alight. No sooner was Ida on firm ground than she ran into the house, and was at once clasped in the arms of her adopted mother.

"O mother!" she exclaimed; "how glad I am to see you once more."

"Haven't you a kiss for me too, Ida?" said the cooper, his face radiant with joy. "You don't know how much we've missed you."

"And I'm so glad to sec you all, and Aunt Rachel, too."

To her astonishment, Aunt Rachel, for the first time in the child's remembrance, kissed her. There was nothing wanting to her welcome home.

Scarcely had the spinster done so than her observant eyes detected what had escaped the cooper and his wife, in their joy.

"Where did you get this dress, Ida?" she asked.

Then, for the first time, all observed that Ida was more elegantly dressed than when she went away. She looked like a young princess.

"That Mrs. Hardwick didn't give you this gown, I'll be bound," said she.

"Oh, I've so much to tell you," said Ida, breathlessly. "I've found my mother,—my other mother!"

A pang struck to the honest hearts of Timothy Crump and his wife. Ida must leave them. After all the happy years during which they had watched over and cared for her, she must leave them at length.

Just then, an elegantly-dressed lady appeared at the threshold. Smiling, radiant with happiness, Mrs. Clifton seemed, to the cooper's family, almost a being from another sphere.

"Mother," said Ida, taking her hand, and leading her to Mrs. Crump, "this is my other mother, who has always taken such good care of me and loved me so well."

"Mrs. Crump," said Mrs. Clifton, "how can I ever thank you for your care of my child?"

My child!

It was hard for Mrs. Crump to hear another speak of Ida in this way.

"I have tried to do my duty by her," she said, simply; "I love her so much."

"Yes," said the cooper, clearing his throat, and speaking a little huskily, "we all love her as if she was our own. She has been so long with us that we have come to think of her as our own, and—and it won't be easy at first to give her up."

"My friend," said Mrs. Clifton, "think not that I shall ever ask you to make that sacrifice. I shall always think of Ida as only a little less yours than mine."

"But you live in Philadelphia. We shall lose sight of her."

"Not unless you refuse to come to Philadelphia, too."

"I am not sure whether I could find work there."

"That shall be my care. I have another inducement. God has bestowed upon me a large share of this world's goods. I am thankful for it, since it will enable me in some slight way to express my sense of your great services to Ida. I own a neat brick house in a quiet street, which you will find more comfortable than this. Just before I left Philadelphia my lawyer drew up a deed of gift, conveying the house to you. It is Ida's gift, not mine. Ida, give this to Mr. Crump."

The child took the parchment, and handed it to the cooper, who was bewildered by his sudden good fortune.

"This for me?" he said.

"It is the first installment of my debt of gratitude; it shall not be the last," said Mrs. Clifton.

"How shall I thank you, madam?" said the cooper. "To a poor man this is, indeed, an acceptable gift."

"By accepting it," said Mrs. Clifton. "Let me add, for I know it will enhance the value of the gift in your eyes, that it is only five minutes' walk from my own house, and Ida will come and see you every day."

"Yes, mamma," said Ida; "I couldn't be happy away from father and mother and Jack, and Aunt Rachel."

"You must introduce me to your Aunt Rachel," said Mrs. Clifton, with a grace all her own.

Ida did so.

"I am glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Rachel," said Mrs. Clifton. "I need not say that I shall be glad to see you, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Crump, at my house very frequently."

"I'm much obleeged to you," said Aunt Rachel; "but I don't think I shall live long to go anywhere. The feelin's I have, sometimes warn me that I'm not long for this world."

"You see, Mrs. Clifton," said Jack, his eyes dancing with mischief, "we come of a short-lived family. Grandmother died at eighty-two, and that wouldn't give Aunt Rachel long to live."

"You impudent boy!" exclaimed Miss Rachel, in great indignation. Then relapsing into melancholy, "I'm a poor afflicted creetur, and the sooner I leave this scene of trial the better."

"Let us hope," said Mrs. Clifton, politely, "that you will find the air of Philadelphia beneficial to your health. Change of air sometimes works wonders."

In the course of a few weeks the whole family removed to Philadelphia. The house which Mrs. Clifton had given them, exceeded their anticipations. It was so much better and larger than their present dwelling, that their furniture would have shown to great disadvantage in it. But Mrs. Clifton had foreseen this, and they found the house already furnished for their reception. Through Mrs. Clifton's influence the cooper was enabled to establish himself in business on a larger scale, and employ others, instead of working himself, for hire. Ida was such a frequent visitor, that it was hard to tell which she considered her home—her mother's elegant dwelling, or Mrs. Cooper's comfortable home.

For Jack, a situation was found in a merchant's counting-room, and he became a thriving young merchant, being eventually taken into partnership. Ida grew lovelier as she grew older, and her rare beauty caused her to be sought after. If she does not marry well and happily, it will not be for want of an opportunity.

Dear reader, you who deem that all stories should end with a marriage, shall not be disappointed.

One day Aunt Rachel was missing from her room. It was remembered that she had appeared singularly for some days previous, and the knowledge of her constitutional low spirits, led to the apprehension that she had made way with herself. The cooper was about to notify the police, when the front door opened and Rachel walked in. She was accompanied by a short man, stout and freckled.

"Why, Aunt Rachel," exclaimed Mrs. Crump, "where have you been? We have been so anxious about you."

A faint flush came to Aunt Rachel's sallow cheek.

"Sister Mary," said she, "you will be surprised, perhaps, but—but this is my consort. Mr. Smith, let me introduce you to my sister."

"Then you are married, Rachel," said Mrs. Crump, quite confounded.

"Yes," said Rachel; "I—I don't expect to live long, and it won't make much difference."

"I congratulate you, Mrs. Smith," said Mary Crump, heartily; "and I wish you a long and happy life, I am sure."

It is observed that, since her marriage, Aunt Rachel's fits of depression are less numerous than before. She has even been seen to smile repeatedly, and has come to bear, with philosophical equanimity, her nephew Jack's sly allusions to her elopement.

One word more. At the close of her term of confinement, Peg came to Mrs. Clifton, and reminded her of her promise. Dick was dead, and she was left alone in the world. Imprisonment had not hardened her as it so often does. She had been redeemed by the kindness of those she had injured. Mrs. Clifton secured her a position in which her energy and administrative ability found fitting exercise, and she leads a laborious and useful life, in a community where her antecedents are not known.

END.