"A friend," was the reply.

"Mrs. Hardwick--Peg--isn't at home," returned Ida.

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

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

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

Mr. John Somerville opened the door, and for the first time in seven
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?"

"No, sir."

"You lived in New York with a family named Harding, 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'll 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
take me home, but she says she won't for a year."

"And how long have you been with her?"

"About three weeks, but it seems a great deal longer."

"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 promise to deliver you from her, would you be willing
to go with me?"

"And you would carry me back to my father and mother?" asked Ida,
eagerly.

"Certainly, I would restore you to your mother," was the evasive reply.

"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, you
know, and then there would be trouble."

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

Neither knew as 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 real mother, of whose existence, even, she was
not yet aware; and that this man, whom she looked upon as her friend,
was in reality her worst enemy.

"I will conduct you to my own rooms, in the first place," said her
companion. "You must remain in concealment for a day or two, as Peg will
undoubtedly be on the look-out for you, and we want to avoid all
trouble."

Ida was delighted with her escape, and with the thoughts 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 saw fit to impose.

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 since her arrival in Philadelphia.

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

"Oh, so glad!" said Ida.

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

The child shuddered.

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

"But she shan'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
delivering her from Peg.

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

"Yes," said Ida; "but she must never know that I told."

"I promise not to tell her."

"It was to pass bad money."

"Ha!" exclaimed her companion, quickly. "What sort of bad money?"

"It was bad bills."

"Did 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.

"Why?" asked Ida, curiously; "are you glad she is wicked?"

"I am glad, because she won't dare to come for you, knowing I can have
her put in prison."

"Then I am glad, too."

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

"I like to read," she said. "I shall enjoy myself very well."

"If you get tired of reading, you can draw. You will find plenty of
paper on my desk."

Mr. Somerville went out, and Ida, as he had recommended, read for a
time. Then, growing tired, she went to the window and looked out. A
carriage was passing up the street slowly, on account of a press of
other 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.

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

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

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

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

"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
in bewilderment. 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!" repeated the astonished child. "Have I got two mothers?"

"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, Jack?"

"No, I am your guardian," said Jack, smiling.

"You shall still consider him your brother, Ida," said Mrs. Clifton.
"Heaven forbid that I should seek to wean your heart from the friends
who have cared so kindly for you! You may 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?" asked Mrs. Clifton, in surprise.

"Yes, mamma," answered Ida, shyly.

Mrs. Clifton pressed Ida to her bosom. It was the first time she had
ever been called mamma, for when Ida had been taken from her she was too
young to speak. The sudden thrill which this name excited made her
realize the full measure of her present happiness.

Arrived at the house, Jack's bashfulness returned. Even Ida's presence
did not remove it. He hung back, and hesitated about going in.

Mrs. Clifton observed this.

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

"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. As you are Ida's guardian," she added,
smiling, "you will need to watch over her."

"Well!" thought Jack, as he re-entered the elegant carriage, and gave
the proper direction to the coachman, "won't Uncle Abel be a little
surprised when he sees me coming home in this style! Mrs. Clifton's a
trump! Maybe that ain't exactly the word, but Ida's in luck anyhow."




CHAPTER XXXIV

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, absolutely
refusing 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 looked at him inquiringly.

"Let me introduce myself, madam, as 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 within 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.

Peg looked up in surprise when she saw Ida enter with Mrs. Clifton.

"What brought you two together?" she asked, abruptly.

"A blessed Providence," answered Mrs. Clifton.

"I saw Jack with her," said Ida, "and I ran out into the street. I
didn't expect to find my mother."

"There is not much for me to tell, then," said Peg. "I had made up my
mind to restore you to your mother. You see, Ida, I've moved," she
continued, smiling grimly.

"Oh, 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 curious surprise. "You
haven't much cause to be. I've been your worst enemy; at any rate, 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 now, by this warm-hearted pity on the part of one
whom 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 toward her old enemy, took her large hand
in hers 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 have
thought I should like to lead a better life."

"It is not too late now, Peg."

Peg shook her head.

"Who will trust me when I come out of here?" she said.

"I will," said Mrs. Clifton.

"You will?" repeated Peg, amazed.

"Yes."

"After all I have done to harm you! But I am not quite so bad as you may
think. It was not my plan to take Ida from you. I was poor, and money
tempted me."

"Who could have had an interest in doing me this cruel wrong?" asked the
mother.

"One whom you know well--Mr. John Somerville."

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

"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 for
doubt.

"I did not believe him capable of such great wickedness," ejaculated
Mrs. Clifton, with a pained and indignant look. "It was a base, unmanly
revenge to take. 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 such as you understand the
temptations of the poor? When want and hunger stare us in the face we
have not the strength 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."

"After all the injury I have done you, you are yet willing to trust me?"

"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?" pointing 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."

They left the prison behind them, and returned home.

There was a visitor awaiting them.

"Mr. Somerville is in the drawing room," said the servant. "He said he
would wait till you came in."

Mrs. Clifton's face flushed.

"I will go down and see him," 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 one desperate cast.
His fortunes were desperate. But he had one hope left. 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 entered the room, and seated herself quietly. She bowed
slightly, but did not, as usual, offer her hand. But, full of his own
plans, Mr. Somerville took no note of this change in her manner.

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

Mrs. Clifton heard this question in surprise. Why was it that he had
alluded to this subject?

"Seven years," she answered.

"And you believe she yet lives?"

"Yes, I am certain of it."

John Somerville did not understand her. He thought it was only because a
mother is reluctant to give up hope.

"It is a long time," he said.

"It is--a long time to suffer," said Mrs. Clifton, with deep meaning.
"How could anyone have the heart to work me this great injury? For seven
years I have led a sad and solitary life--seven years that might have
been gladdened and cheered by my darling's presence!"

There was something in her tone that puzzled John Somerville, but he was
far enough from suspecting that she knew the truth, and at last knew him
too.

"Rosa," he said, after a pause, "I, too, believe that Ida still lives.
Do you love her well enough to make a sacrifice for the sake of
recovering her?"

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

"A sacrifice of your feelings."

"Explain. You speak in enigmas."

"Listen, then. I have already told you that I, too, believe Ida to be
living. Indeed, I have lately come upon a clew which I think will lead
me to her. Withdraw the opposition you have twice made to my suit,
promise me that you will reward my affection by your hand if I succeed,
and I will devote myself to the search for Ida, resting not day or night
till I have placed her in your arms. This I am ready to do. If I
succeed, may I claim my reward?"

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

"The clew that I spoke of."

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

"No, Rosa," he answered, firmly, "I am not unselfish enough. I have long
loved you. You may not love me; but I am sure I can make you happy. I am
forced to show myself selfish, since it is the only way in which I can
win you."

"But consider a moment. Put it on a different ground. If you restore me
my child now, will not even that be a poor atonement for the wrong you
did me seven years since"--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, faltering.

"It is sufficient explanation, Mr. Somerville, to say 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."

"Confusion!"

He uttered only this word, and, rising, left the presence of the woman
whom he had so long deceived and injured.

His grand scheme had failed.




CHAPTER XXXV

JACK'S RETURN


It is quite time to return to New York, from which Ida was carried but
three short weeks before.

"I am beginning to feel anxious about Jack," said Mrs. Harding. "It's
more than 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, wishing to relieve
his wife's anxiety, though he, too, was not without anxiety.

"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. Harding, "and about your own
nephew, too?"

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

"At that rate there wouldn't be much joy in life," said Timothy.
"No, Rachel, you are wrong. God did not 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, or become food for the fishes. Even if
he should happen to tumble in, he can swim."

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

"Well," said the cooper, good-humoredly, "that's a good deal better to
anticipate than your suggestion, and I don't know but it's as probable."

Rachel shook her head dismally.

"Bless me!" interrupted Mrs. Harding, looking out of the window, in a
tone of excitement, "there's a carriage just stopped at the door,
and--yes, it is Jack and Ida, too!"

The strange fulfillment of her own ironical suggestion struck even Aunt
Rachel. She, too, hastened to the window, and saw a handsome carriage
drawn, not by four horses, but by two, 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.

"Oh, 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 am so glad to see you all, and Aunt Rachel too!"

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

But the observant eyes of the spinster detected what had escaped the
cooper and his wife, in their joy at Ida's return.

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

Then, for the first time, the cooper's family noticed 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 Aunt
Rachel.

"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 Harding and his wife. Ida
must leave them. After all the happy years which they had watched over
and cared for her, she must leave them at length.