what this unknown father could have been. Already his very name had taken a strong hold upon her innocent affections. Surely she ought to love him, to make up to him for her life-long forgetfulness. Who could he have been? What was he like? What was his name? But here a new question started up—why did not she bear his name, instead of that of her mother and grandmother?
In vain she questioned and conjectured. There was but one way out of this strange mystery—her grandmother must know all about it. To-morrow she would ask her. Yes; to-morrow she would get her grandmother to tell her all about it; but though she repeated these words to herself a dozen times, they did not satisfy her impatient longing, and more widely awake than ever, she looked and longed for the coming day.
And Mrs. Campbell, too, had had her sleepless night (but it was not so new to her). She, too, had been tossing restlessly, striving vainly with the memories of the past and the anxieties of the future.
Again she reviewed the sad events of
