“Yes sir, thank your honor.”

“Not ‘your honor’ until I’m a judge, Teddy.  But what’s amiss with you, my boy?”

“I wouldn’t be troubling your—­you with it, sir.  It’s nothing as can be helped.”

“No, no; but what is it, Teddy?” insisted the lawyer, who saw that Teddy could hardly restrain his tears.

“Nothing, sir; but the little sister is mortal sick, and the doctor says he’s afeard she won’t stand it.”

“Your little sister, Teddy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I didn’t know you had one.  You never spoke of her before, did you?”

“Maybe not, sir.”

“What is the matter with her?”

“The faver, sir.”

Mr. Burroughs knew that this phrase in an Irish mouth means but one disease, and replied, in a sympathizing voice,—­

“Typhus!  I’m sorry for you, Teddy, and sorry, too, for your mother, who is an excellent woman; but the little girl may yet recover:  while there is life, there is hope, you know.  Even if she dies, it is not so bad as—­I am going to New York, Teddy, to look for a little cousin of mine whose parents do not know if she is living or dead, suffering or safe:  that is worse than to have her ill, but under their care and protection, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir, perhaps.  Is the little girl in New York, sir, do you think?”

“We hear of a child found astray there, who answers to the description; and I am going to see her before we mention the report to her mother.  Have you never seen Mr. Legrange here, Teddy?  It is his little girl.  I wonder you haven’t heard us talking of the matter.”

“I don’t mind the name, sir; and I haven’t heard of the little girl before.  Is she long lost?”

“Ten days yesterday.  I have been busy all the week in the search for her.  The clothes she had on when lost were found in a pawn-broker’s shop; but we have no trace of her yet.”

“What looking child was she, if you please, sir?” asked Teddy after a short pause, in which he seemed to study intently; while Mr. Burroughs went on glancing at the newspapers in his hand.

“’Toinette?  Here is a description of her in ‘The Journal,’ and I have a photograph in my pocket-book.  Here it is.  It is well for you to study them both; for possibly you may discover her.  I didn’t think of it before; but you are just the boy to put upon the search.  If you should find her, Teddy, Mr. Legrange will make your fortune.  He is rich and generous, and this is his only child.  Eleven o’clock.  Shall be in at one.”

As he spoke, Mr. Burroughs threw the paper and photograph upon Teddy’s table, and hastily left the office.  The boy took up “The Journal,” and read the following advertisement:—­

“Lost, upon the evening of Oct. 31, a little girl, six years of age, named Antoinette Legrange; of slight figure, round face, delicate color, large blue eyes, long curled hair of a bright-yellow color, small mouth, and regular teeth.  She was dressed, at the time of her disappearance, in a blue frock and brown boots, with a lady’s breakfast-shawl; and wore upon the sleeve of her dress a bracelet of coral cameos engraved under the clasp with her name in full.  A liberal reward will be paid for information concerning her.  Apply at the police-station.”