CHAPTER XXIX.

AT LAST.

"GERTRUDE! Where is he?"

Left with her sister by the kind thought of their hostess, Gertrude tried hard to recover her firmness. To have such a joyful piece of news in her possession as that little Lester was found, and then to have to tell that poor mother that her darling had almost better be dead; how could she say it?

"Dearest Rose, it is a very sad story, and I want to prepare you for a great blow—and yet I cannot do it as I would."

"Oh, do not keep me in suspense!" exclaimed Rose. "Tell me the worst at once; I can bear anything better than this. If Lester is indeed found, what do I want more?"

"Rose," said Gertrude earnestly, "you will have a great wrong to forgive—a greater wrong than you can picture—and yet—yet—you will forgive it when you realize the sorrow they have gone through."

But what was so plain to Gertrude was all an enigma to poor Rose. Her expectant look was so imploring that her sister knew not what to say.

"Tell me all," said Rose; "hide nothing."

"Little Lester is, I believe, found, dear Rose, but through—through a sad accident, his mind is affected."

"What?" exclaimed Rose, her eyes dilated with horror. "Where—where?"

"Very near us," said Gertrude tenderly. "If you think you can command yourself, and bear what has to be borne bravely, I will take you to him, Rose."

Her sister looked round mechanically for her bonnet, then left the room hurriedly to seek it.

Gertrude hastened to the drawing-room, where she found the whole family waiting, almost breathlessly, having heard the opening door, and Mrs. Leigh running up-stairs.

"I must hardly tell you a word," said Gertrude, "but I believe I have found her little boy. Do not ask me, for I may not answer! We will come back as soon as we can. Oh, how kind you all are!"

She heard her sister returning down-stairs, and with an apologetic look she joined her in the hall, and they left the house together.

"Where?" asked Rose, turning to her as they got to the gate. "Not—no, it is not next door, after all!"

"Rose," said Gertrude, taking her trembling hand, "I must not take you till you are calm. When we remember, that if we find him, it will be all our Father's doing, that ought to calm us."

Rose pressed her hand, and walked on with her slowly and steadily, entering the garden of the Strange House and walking up to the door without the agitation which had made Gertrude so anxious about the coming interview.

They rang the bell, and there was a long pause. Gertrude's heart almost failed her, lest the woman should repent her bargain. But then she thought of the earnest promise she had given; she thought again of her great Helper, and took courage.

"Will they let us in?" whispered Rose.

"I think so; she said she would."

"Who is she? Is it the landlady?"

"Yes, dearest! She has suffered terribly for what she did; you will pity her by and by."

"Ring again, Gertrude," said Rose. "How can I bear it?"

But even as she spoke the door opened, and the woman stood within, cold and silent.

"I have brought my sister," said Gertrude, putting her hand on her arm.

"Have you told her?" asked the woman abruptly.

"Some of it; I have not had time for all."

"Will she ever forgive me? Does she forgive me?"

"I am sure she will by and by. You remember she wants to see little Lester now; she has not seen him for two whole years."

The woman turned slowly, and holding the flickering candle in her hand, led the way up the uncarpeted stairs to the very top, where she went through an open door, the sisters following her with beating hearts.

"He is very poorly," said the woman, in a smothered voice, as she set the candle down and went to the little crib in the corner.

All was scrupulously clean. The coverlet as white as snow, the sheets fresh and spotless.

Rose took it all in, but as the woman drew aside the coverings, the little form brought to view was not what she had expected.

There were the bright golden curls lying on the pillow, but the little face which she had pictured day and night since she lost him was quite different and altered.

A tiny shrunken face now, with closed eyes.

"Lester!" said Rose, in the cooing tone one would use to a half-waking baby. "Lester, here is mother come back!"

The child stirred and opened his eyes dreamily.

"Will you come on my lap, Lester?" she said, bending over him and kissing his cheek lightly, thinking not of herself but of him. "Will you come, Lester?"

As she held out her arms, the child seemed to understand, and held out his. But before they reached her neck, they fell back weakly, and he remained with his eyes fixed on her face.

She raised him up tenderly, and lifted him to the fireside, her heart failing her as she perceived that he was nothing but skin and bone.

His little head lay on her breast. At last! At last! But not an answer could she get from his little pale lips, not a glance of intelligence from his quiet blue eyes.

Gertrude stood by, and the woman stood by, their tears dropping one after another unheeded down their cheeks, while Rose seemed to see nothing, hear nothing, besides her child. She rocked him backwards and forwards, she kissed him softly, she smoothed his silky hair, she held his emaciated hand in hers, and ever and anon she said, as if to herself, "Lord, I thank Thee—I thank Thee—that I have him again. My little Lester, my little Lester!"

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