he knew of the flood and feared for his wife's relatives who lived in
that town. He took me back with him, and I have lived with Uncle John
and Aunt Sarah ever since."

"But your father and mother, Amy?"

"No one ever knew what became of them. They--they were never found,
though a careful search was made. I was the only one left."

"And was there nothing to tell of your past life?"

"There wasn't much to tell, you see--I was so small. There was a sort
of diary in the bed with me, but it only gave details of my baby
days--probably it was written by my mother--for the handwriting is
that of a woman. Aunt Sarah gave it to me the other day. I shall
always treasure it."

"And is that all?"

"Well, there was a mention of something--in a vague sort of way--that I
was to inherit when I grew up. Whether it was land or money no one can
tell. The reference is so veiled. Even Uncle John, and he is a stock and
bond broker, you know, says he is puzzled. He has had a search made in
Rockford--that's where the flood was--but it came to nothing. And so
that is all I know of my past."

"But your aunt must know something of your mother if they were
relatives."

"Very little. They saw each other hardly at all, and not for some years