“O—­h!  Susan!” cried the child suddenly, and then stood all pale and trembling, while her earnest eyes seemed searching in the past for some dimly-remembered secret, which to lose was agony, to recall impossible.

“Susan!” said she softly again.  “Yes, there was Susan, somewhere, and—­Oh! tell me the rest, tell me who it was that loved me so!”

“Sure, it was Teddy loved you best of all,” said the boy longingly:  for, though her eager eyes dwelt upon his face, it was not for him or his that the depths of her heart were stirring; and, with the old thrill of jealous pain, he felt it so.

But then from the remorse and bitterness of the fault he had never ceased to mourn rose a nobler purpose, a higher love.  He took the child in his arms, and kissed her tenderly, then released her, saying,—­

“Good-by, little sister; for I never will call you so again, and you never more will call me brother.  It’s your own lady-mother, darling, that you’re missing and mourning,—­the own beautiful mother that lost you two years ago, and has gone to heaven’s gates looking for you, and never would have come back if you had not been found.  It’s your own home, darling, that you have remembered for heaven; and it’s waiting for you, with father and mother, and joy and plenty, all ready to receive you the minute you can get there.”

But it was too much for the fine organization and sensitive temperament; and, as Teddy’s words reached her heart in their full meaning, the child, with a long sobbing cry, fell forward into his arms, utterly insensible.

Teddy, not too much terrified for he had seen her thus before, raised the slender little figure in his arms, and carried it swiftly toward the house, now just visible through a vista of the wood, but, before he reached it, met Dora coming to look for her little charge.

“Good-morning, Mr. Ginniss.  So you have caught my naughty runaway,” cried she gayly; but coming near enough to notice Sunshine’s drooping figure, and Teddy’s agitated face, she sprang forward, asking,—­

“Is any thing the matter with her?  Where did you find her, Mr. Ginniss?”

“She’s fainted, ma’am; but it’s with joy, and will never hurt her.  It’s you and I that will be the sufferers, I’m afraid,” said Teddy, with a sudden pang at his heart of love not yet cleansed of selfish jealousy.

“Bring her to the house, please, as quickly as you can.  Poor little darling, she is so delicate!” said Dora, not yet caring to ask this strange news, but walking close beside Teddy, her hand clasping that cold little one which swung nervelessly over his shoulder, her eyes anxiously watching the beautiful pale face, half hidden in the showering curls.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Teddy’s privilege.

To Mr. Burroughs, smoking his cigar upon the piazza of the Neff House, came a white-jacketed waiter with a card.