“‘That manes hivin, mammy, don’t it?’ axed the darlint in her own purty way; an’ so I says, ‘Yis, that manes hivin; an’ don’t ye niver be lettin’ man, woman, nor child, be knowin’ to it, till ye git to hivin’.’  For sure I knowed she must be some person’s child that ’ud one day give their hearts out uv their buzzums to know for sure that she wor their own.”

“And that is the reason she never would let me look at it, or open it,” said Dora.  “She always said, when I asked about it, that it was to go to heaven with her; and, when she got there, she’d open it.  So I supposed it was a charm or relic, such as some of our soldiers used to carry about their necks; and I never meddled with it.”

“And I, although I knew what it must be, wanted to hear Mrs. Ginniss say that it was the very same bag and all, that she put about the darling’s neck soon after she went to her.  But now”—­

The quick snip of the scissors finished the sentence, and the bag lay in Mrs. Legrange’s palm.  Sunshine’s little hand went up rather forlornly to her bosom, robbed of what it so long had cherished; and Dora clasped her tighter, and kissed her tenderly:  but neither spoke, until Mrs. Legrange drew from the bag, and held before them, the coral bracelet, with its linked cameos, broken at one point by the force with which Mother Winch had torn it from the child’s shoulder, and with the clasp still closed.

Mrs. Legrange opened it, touched the spring, causing the upper plate to fly up, and silently showed to Dora the name “Antoinette Legrange” engraved within.

“Not quite two years since it was engraved, and what a life of sorrow!” said she softly.

Then, going to her jewel-case, she took out the mate, saved as a sacred relic since the day it had been found upon the floor in the drawing-room after ’Toinette’s flight, and handed it to the child, saying,—­

“Here is the other one, darling; and you may, if you like, give it to Dora for your wedding-present.  This one, that has showed the wanderings of my poor little lost lamb so long, I shall keep for myself.”

“Will you take it, Dora, and some love, ever so much love, along with it?” said Sunshine, trying to make her little offering in somewhat the form she had heard from older people, but finishing with a sudden clasp of her arms about Dora’s neck, and a shower of kisses, among which came the whispered words,—­

“I love you ever and ever so much better than Cousin Tom does, Dora.  Be my little wife, and never mind him; won’t you?”

CHAPTER XL.

The wedding-day.

“Make haste, Mr. Sun, and get up!  Don’t you know it is my birthday, and, what is better, it is Dora’s wedding-day?  So jump up, pretty Sunny, and be just as bright as glory all day long!”

And the sun, hearing the appeal, stood suddenly upon the summit of the distant hills, shooting playful golden arrows into the child’s merry eyes, and among her floating hair, where they clung glittering and glancing; while to her mind he seemed to say,—­