When the last fold of paper was removed there lay revealed a child’s muslin slip.  Clara lifted it and shook it gently until it was unfolded before their eyes.  The lower half was delicately worked in a lacelike pattern, revealing an immense amount of patient labor.

The elder woman seized the slip with hands which could not disguise their trembling.  Scanning the garment carefully, she seemed to be noting the pattern of the needlework, and then, pointing to a certain spot, exclaimed:——­

“I thought so!  I was sure of it!  Do you not see the letters—­M.S.?”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Clara seized the slip in turn and scanned the monogram.  “How strange that you should see that at once and that I should not have discovered it, who have looked at it a hundred times!  And here,” she added, opening a small package which had been inclosed in the other, “is my coral necklace.  Perhaps your keen eyes can find something in that.”

It was a simple trinket, at which the older woman gave but a glance—­a glance that added to her emotion.

“Listen, child,” she said, laying her trembling hand on the other’s arm.  “It is all very strange and wonderful, for that slip and necklace, and, now that I have seen them, your face and your voice and your ways, all tell me who you are.  Your eyes are your father’s eyes, your voice is your father’s voice.  The slip was worked by your mother’s hand.”

“Oh!” cried Clara, and for a moment the whole world swam before her eyes.

“I was on the Pride of St. Louis, and I knew your father—­and your mother.”

Clara, pale with excitement, burst into tears, and would have fallen had not the other woman caught her in her arms.  Mrs. Harper placed her on the couch, and, seated by her side, supported her head on her shoulder.  Her hands seemed to caress the young woman with every touch.

“Tell me, oh, tell me all!” Clara demanded, when the first wave of emotion had subsided.  “Who were my father and my mother, and who am I?”

The elder woman restrained her emotion with an effort, and answered as composedly as she could,——­

“There were several hundred passengers on the Pride of St. Louis when she left Cincinnati on that fateful day, on her regular trip to New Orleans.  Your father and mother were on the boat—­and I was on the boat.  We were going down the river, to take ship at New Orleans for France, a country which your father loved.”

“Who was my father?” asked Clara.  The woman’s words fell upon her ear like water on a thirsty soil.

“Your father was a Virginia gentleman, and belonged to one of the first families, the Staffords, of Melton County.”

Clara drew herself up unconsciously, and into her face there came a frank expression of pride which became it wonderfully, setting off a beauty that needed only this to make it all but perfect of its type.

“I knew it must be so,” she murmured.  “I have often felt it.  Blood will always tell.  And my mother?”