Amy had been tolerably clear in her conversation up to this point, but she was getting tired, and it was a long, rambling story she told, with many digressions and much irrelevant matter, but Eloise managed to follow her and get a fairly correct version of the truth.  Candida, whom Amy loved devotedly, and with whom she had been very happy, had died after a brief illness when Eloise was an infant.  Homer Smith, the handsome American, who had attached himself to the Candidas, was very kind to the young widow, whom he induced to marry him, and to let her little girl take his name.

“I don’t know why I did that,” Amy said; “only he always made me do what he pleased, and he pretended to love you so much, and he didn’t want his friends to know he was my second husband when he came to America.  I couldn’t understand that, but I yielded, as I did in everything.  He seemed to hate the name of Candida, and was jealous of him in his grave, and would never let me speak of him.  I think he was crazy, and he said I was, and shut me up.  He once wrote to Col.  Crompton for money and got a dreadful letter, telling him to go to that place where I am afraid he has gone, and saying I was welcome to come home any time, if I would leave the singing master.  There was a bad word before the ‘singing,’ which I can’t speak.  I meant to go home some time and take you with me.  I hated the stage, and the pain got in my head, and I forgot so many things after he said you were dead, but never forgot you, although I didn’t talk about you much.  I couldn’t, for a bunch came in my throat and choked me, and my head seemed to open and shut on the top when I thought of you.  Col.  Crompton has been very kind to me since I came.  I think now he is my father.  I asked him once, and he said, No.  I believed him then, and accepted in my mind some Mr. Harris, for I knew my mother was a true woman.  We will find it all out, you and I.”

“Yes,” Eloise replied, “and the pain will go away, and you will tell me more of my own father.  I know now why I never could feel a daughter’s love for the other one.  Does grandmother know?  She was always kind to me, and I love her.”

Amy shook her head, and said, “I think not, but am not sure.  It will be clearer by and by.  I must sleep now.”

When she was tired she always slept, and, adjusting the cushions on the sofa, Eloise made her lie down, and spread over her the little red cloak which had been the means of bringing them together.

“Yes, that’s right.  Cover me with the dear old cloak Jakey gave me,” Amy said sleepily.  “You’ll help me find him.”

Eloise didn’t know who Jakey was, or what connection he had with the cloak; but she answered promptly, “Yes, I’ll help you find him and everything.”