Kitabı oku: «Donald and Dorothy», sayfa 16

It was DOROTHY.

"Ah! Dorothy," echoed the other. "Yes, that was it. I told you so."

"You said Delia," suggested Don.

The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, Delia."

"But it's Dorothy," insisted Donald firmly, and with gladness in his tone that made the old man smile in sympathy. "Dorothy, as plain as day."

To Monsieur Bajeau the precise name was of little consequence, but he adjusted his glasses and looked at the book again.

"Yes – Dorothy. So it is. A pretty name. I am glad, my friend, if you are pleased." Here Monsieur shook Donald's hand warmly. "The name in my book is certainly correct. I would be sure to write just what the lady told me." An antique clock behind them struck "two." "Ah, it is time for me to eat something. Will you stay and take coffee with me, my friend? We are not strangers now."

Strangers indeed! Donald fairly loved the man. He did not accept the invitation, but thanking him again and again, agreed to return in the evening; for Monsieur Bajeau wished to know more of the strange story.

Donald walked back to the hotel lightly as though treading the air. Everything looked bright to him. Havre, he perceived, was one of the most delightful cities in the world. He felt like sending a cable message home about the chain, but on second thought resolved to be cautious. It would not do to raise hopes that might yet be disappointed. It was just possible that after that visit to Monsieur Bajeau, his mother, for some reason, had transferred the necklace to baby Delia's neck. He would wait. His work was not yet finished; but he had made a splendid beginning.

More than one tourist hurrying through Havre that day, bound for the steamer, or for that pride of the city, the hill of Ingouville, to enjoy the superb view, noticed the young lad's joyous face and buoyant step as he passed by.

Donald walked briskly into the hotel, intent upon writing a cheery letter home; but, from habit, he stopped at the desk to ask if there was anything for him.

"Mr. D. Reed?" asked the hotel clerk, pointing to a bulky envelope half covered with postage stamps.

"That's my name," returned the happy boy, as he hurriedly tore open one end of the envelope. "Whew! Six!"

There were indeed six letters; and all had been forwarded from Aix-la-Chapelle.

One was from Mr. Wogg, enclosing a bit of printed calico and a soiled memorandum, stating that he sent herewith a piece like the gown which the party in Liverpool had given to the young Frenchwoman fifteen years before. He had obtained it, Mr. Wogg said, "from an old patch-work quilt in the possession of the party, and had paid said party one crown for the same." Two letters were from Mr. Reed and Dorothy, and the rest, three in number – addressed to D. R., in care of Dubigk's Hotel, Aix-la-Chapelle – were from three persons with very different handwritings, but each was signed "Ellen Lee."

CHAPTER XXXIII.
AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW

Donald, going to his room, laid the three Ellen-Lee letters upon the table before him and surveyed the situation That only one of them could be from the right Ellen Lee seemed evident; but which one? That was the question.

"This cannot be it," thought Donald, as he took up a badly written and much blotted sheet. "It is English-French, and evidently is in the handwriting of a man. Well, this brilliant person requests me to send one hundred francs to pay her expenses to Aix-la-Chapelle, and she will then prove her identity and receive the grateful reward. Thank you, my good man! – not if the court knows itself. We'll lay you aside for the present."

The next was from a woman – a bonne– who stated that by good nursing she had saved so many babies' lives in her day that she could not be sure which two babies this very kind "D. R." alluded to, but her name was Madame L. N. Lit. A wise friend had told her of this advertisement, and explained that as L. N. Lit in French and Ellen Lee in English had exactly the same sound, the inquirer probably was a native of Great Britain, and had made a very natural mistake in writing her name Ellen Lee. Therefore she had much pleasure in informing the kind advertiser that at present her address was No. – Rue St. Armand, Rouen, where she was well known, and that she would be truly happy to hear of something to her advantage. Donald shook his head very doubtfully, as he laid this letter aside. But the next he read twice, and even then he did not lay it down until he had read it again. It was a neatly written little note, and simply stated, in French, that D. R. could see Ellen Lee by calling at No. – Rue Soudière, Paris, and making inquiry for Madame René.

"An honest little note," was Donald's verdict, after carefully scrutinizing it, "and worth following up. The others can wait. I shall go to Paris and look up this Madame René. Yes, she shall receive a visit from his majesty."

Don was in high spirits, you see, – and no wonder. He already had accomplished a splendid day's work in visiting M. Bajeau, and here was at least a promising result from his advertisement. He longed to rush back at once to the quaint little shop, but he had been asked to come in the evening, and the old gentleman had a certain dignity of manner that Don respected. He felt that he must be patient and await the appointed hour.

It came at last, and by that time Donald had enjoyed a hearty meal, written to Mr. Wogg, and made all needed preparations to take the earliest train for Paris the next day.

M. Bajeau – good old man! – was made happy as a boy by the sight of Ellen Lee's letter.

"It is great good luck, my friend, that it should come to you," he said, in rapid French, his old cheeks faintly flushing with pleasure. "Now, you take my word, if she is tall, dark, fine-looking – this Madame René, eh? – you have found the very bonne who came to my little shop with the widow lady. Ask her about me – if she remember, eh? how I engraved the two letters with my own hand, while she stood by, holding the pink-faced baby – ha! ha!" (Here Monsieur rubbed his hands.) "She will remember! She will prove what I say, without doubt. She will know about the key to the necklace – yes, and the lock that has the air of a clasp. Let me see it again. You have it with you?"

Donald displayed the treasure promptly.

"Stay," said Monsieur. "I will, with your permission, try and open the little lock for you. I shall be very careful."

"No, no – thank you!" said Donald, quickly, as M. Bajeau took up a delicate tool. "I would rather wait till I have tried to find the key, and until my uncle and – and sister have seen it again just as it is. My uncle, I am positive, never discovered that the top of the clasp could be slid around in this way. The key itself may come to light yet – who knows? Now, Monsieur, will you do me a great favor?"

"Name it," replied the old man, eying him not unkindly.

"Will you allow me to cut that page out of your order-book?"

"Certainly, my boy; certainly, and with pleasure," said M. Bajeau.

No sooner said than done. Donald, who had his penknife ready, delighted M. Bajeau with his clever way of cutting out the page close to its inner side, and yet in a zigzag line, so that at any time afterward the paper could be fitted into its place in the book, in case it should be necessary to prove its identity.

Next the story of the chain was retold with great care, and written down by Don as it came from Monsieur's lips, word for word, and signed by M. Bajeau with trembling nicety. "Stay!" he exclaimed, as he laid down the pen. "It will be right for me to certify to this in legal form. Early in the morning, we can go to my good neighbor the notary and sign the paper. In a day or so we shall know whether this Madame René is Ellen Lee. If so, she will remember that hour spent in the shop of the watch-mender Bajeau, ha! ha!"

Monsieur could afford to laugh, for, though he still repaired watches, he had risen somewhat in worldly success and dignity since that day. An American, under the same circumstances, would by this time have had a showy bric-à-brac establishment, with a large sign over the door. But Monsieur Bajeau was content with his old shop, well satisfied to know the value of the treasures of jewelry and rare furniture which he bought and sold.

The visit to the notary over, Donald took his leave, promising the old man to come and bid him good-by before sailing for America, and, if possible, to bring Ellen Lee with him to Monsieur Bajeau's shop.

Late in the afternoon of the same day, after a dusty seven hours' ride in a railway coach, he found himself in Paris, on the way to the Rue Soudière, in search of Madame René.

It was something beside the effort of mounting five flights of stairs that caused his heart to beat violently when, after inquiring at every landing-place on his way up, he finally knocked at a small door on the very top story.

A short, middle-aged woman, with pale blue eyes and scanty gray hair, opened the door.

"Is this Madame René?" asked Donald, devoutly hoping that she would say "No."

The woman nodded, at the same time regarding him with suspicion, and not opening the door wide enough for him to enter.

"You replied to an advertisement, I believe?" began Donald again, bowing politely; but noting the woman's blank reception of his English, he repeated the inquiry in French. The door opened wide; the woman smiled a smile that might have been agreeable but for the lonely effect of her solitary front tooth, and then courteously invited her visitor to enter and be seated.

Poor Donald, wishing that he were many miles away, and convinced that nothing could come of an interview with this short, stout, pale-eyed "Ellen Lee," took a chair and waited resignedly for Madame to speak.

"I have advertised," she said in French, "and am ready to begin work."

Donald looked at her inquiringly.

"Perhaps Madame, the young gentleman's mother," she suggested, "wishes a fine pastry-cook at once?"

"A pastry-cook!" exclaimed Donald, in despair. "I came to see Ellen Lee, or rather to inquire for Madame René. Is your name René?"

"I am Madame René," a woman answered, in well-spoken English, as she stepped forward from a dark corner of the room, where she had been sitting unobserved by Donald. "Who is it wishes to see Ellen Lee?"

"The boy whose life she saved!" said Donald, rising to his feet and holding out his hand, unable in his excitement to be as guarded as he had intended to be. A glance had convinced him that this was Ellen Lee, indeed. The woman, tall, dark-eyed, stately, very genteel in spite of evident poverty, was about thirty-five years of age. There was no mistaking the sudden joy in her care-worn face. She seized his hand, without a word; then, as if recollecting herself, and feeling that she must be more cautious, she eyed him sharply, saying:

"And the other? the brother? There were two. Is he living?"

For a second Donald's heart sank; but he quickly recovered himself. Perhaps she was trying tricks upon him; if so, he must defend himself as well as he could. So he answered, carelessly, but heartily, "Oh! he's alive and well, thank you, and thanks to you."

This time they looked into each other's eyes – she, with a sudden expression of disappointment, for would-be shrewd people are apt to give little credit to others for equal shrewdness.

"Did you never have a sister?" she asked, with some hesitation.

"Oh, yes!" he replied, "but I must ask you now to tell me something of Ellen Lee, and how she saved us. I can assure you of one thing – I am alive and grateful. Pray tell me your story with perfect frankness. In the first place, – are you and Ellen Lee the same?"

"Yes."

"And do you know my name?"

"Indeed I do," she said, a slow smile coming into her face. "I will be frank with you. If you are the person I believe you to be, your name is Donald Reed."

"Good!" he exclaimed, joyfully; "and the other – what was – "

"His name?" she interrupted, again smiling. "His name was Dorothy Reed, sir! They were twins – a beautiful boy and girl."

To the latest day of his life Donald never will forget that moment; and he never will understand why he did not jump to his feet, grasp her hand, ask her dozens of questions at once, and finally implore her to tell him what he could do to prove his gratitude. He had, in fancy, acted out just such a scene while on his hopeful way to Paris. But, no. In reality, he just drew his chair a little nearer hers, – feeling, as he afterwards told his uncle, thoroughly comfortable, – and in the quietest possible way assured her that she was right as to the boy's name, but, to his mind, it would be very difficult for her to say which little girl she had saved – whether it was the baby-sister or the baby-cousin.

This was a piece of diplomacy on his part that would have delighted Mr. Wogg. True, he would prefer to be entirely frank on all occasions, but, in this instance, he felt that Mr. Wogg would highly disapprove of his "giving the case away" by letting the woman know that he hoped to identify Dorothy as his sister. What if Madame René, in the hope of more surely "hearing of something greatly to her advantage," were to favor his desire that the rescued baby should be Dorothy and not Delia?

"What do you mean?" asked Madame René.

"I mean, that possibly the little girl you saved was my cousin and not my sister," he replied, boldly.

Ellen Lee shrank from him a moment, and then almost angrily said:

"Why not your sister? Ah, I understand! – you would then be sole heir. But I must tell the truth, young gentleman; so much has been on my conscience all these years that I wish to have nothing left to reproach me. There was a time when, to get a reward, I might, perhaps, have been willing to say that the other rescued baby was your cousin, but now my heart is better. Truth is truth. I held little Donald and Dorothy both in these arms that terrible night. If I saved any little girl, it was Dorothy; and Dorothy was Donald Reed's twin sister."

Donald gave an exclamation of delight, but he checked himself as he glanced toward the short, light-haired Madame, whose peculiar appearance had at first threatened to blight his expectations. She was now seated by the small window, industriously mending a coarse woollen stocking, and evidently caring very little for the visitor, as he was not in search of a pastry-cook.

"We need not mind her," Madam René explained. "Marie Dubois is a good, dull-witted soul, who stays here with me when she is out of a situation. She cannot understand a word of English. We have decided to separate soon, and to leave these lodgings. I cannot make enough money with my needle to live here; and so we must both go out and work – I as a sewing-woman, and she as a cook. Ah me! In the years gone by I hoped to go to America and live with that lovely lady, your poor mother."

"Do you remember her well?" asked Donald, hesitating as to which one of a crowd of questions he should ask first.

"Perfectly, sir. She was very handsome. Ah me! and so good, so grand! The other lady – her husband's sister, I think, was very pretty, very sweet and gentle; but my lady was like a queen. I can see a trace of her features – just a little – in yours, Mr. – Mr. Reed. I did not at first; but the likeness grows on me."

"And this?" asked Donald, taking a photograph from his pocket. "Do you see any resemblance here to my mother?"

She held it up to the light, and looked at it long and wistfully. "Poor lady!" she said at last.

"Poor lady?" echoed Donald, rather amused at hearing his bright little Dorry spoken of in that way; "she is barely sixteen."

"Ah, no! It is the mother I am thinking of. How proud and happy she would be now with this beautiful daughter! For surely this is your sister's likeness, sir?"

Ellen Lee looked up quickly, but, reassured by Donald's prompt "Yes, indeed," she again studied the picture.

It was one that he had carried about with him ever since he left home – putting it upon the wall or the bureau of his room, wherever he had chanced to lodge; and it showed Dorothy just as she looked the day before he sailed. He had gone with her to the photographer's to have it taken, and for his sake she had tried to forget that they were so suddenly to say "good-by."

"Ah, what a bright, happy face! A blessed day indeed it would be to me if I could see you two, grown to a beautiful young lady and gentleman, standing together – "

"That you shall see," responded Donald, heartily, not because he accepted the title of beautiful young gentleman, but because his heart was full of joy to think of the happy days to come, when the shadow of doubt and mystery would be forever lifted from the home at Lakewood.

"Is she coming? Is she here?" cried Madame René, who, misinterpreting Donald's words, had risen to her feet, half expecting to see the young girl enter the room.

"No. But depend upon it, you will go there," said Don. "You must carry out the dream of your youth, and begin life in America. My uncle surely will send for you. You know, I promised that you should hear of something greatly to your advantage."

"But the ocean," she began, with a show of dread, in spite of the pleasure that shone in her eyes. "I could never venture upon the great, black ocean again!"

"It will not be the black ocean this time. It will be the blue ocean, full of light and promise," said Donald, growing poetic, "and it will bear you to comfort and prosperity. Dorothy and I will – "

"Dorothy!" cried Ellen Lee. "Yes, I feel as if I could cross two oceans to see you both together, alive and well, so I could."

At this point Madame Dubois, rousing herself, said, rather querulously, in her native tongue: "Elise, are you to talk all night? Have you forgotten that you are to take me to see the lady on the Rue St. Honoré at six?"

"Ah, I did forget," was the reply. "I will go at once, if the young gentleman will excuse me."

"Certainly," said Donald, rising; "and I shall call again to-morrow, as I have many things yet to ask you. I'll go now and cable home."

Ellen Lee looked puzzled.

"Can I be forgetting my own language?" she thought to herself. But she had resolved to be frank with Donald. Had not he and Dorothy already opened a new life to her? "Cable home?" she repeated. "I do not understand."

"Why, send a cable message, you know – a message by the ocean telegraph."

"Oh, yes. Bless me! It will be on the other side, too, before one can wink. It is wonderful; and Mr. Donald, – if I may call you so, – while you're writing it, would you please, if you wouldn't mind it, send my love to Miss Dorothy?"

"Good!" cried Donald. "I'll do exactly that. Nothing could be better. It will tell the story perfectly."

Donald, going down the steep flights of stairs soon afterwards, intending to return later, longed to send a fine supper to Ellen Lee and her companion; also beautiful new gowns, furniture, pictures, and flowers. He felt like a fairy prince, ready to shower benefits upon her, but he knew that he must be judicious in his kindness, and considerate of Ellen Lee's feelings. Poor, as she evidently was, she had a proud spirit, and must not be carelessly rewarded.

Before another night had passed, Uncle George and the anxious-hearted girl at Lakewood received this message:

Ellen Lee Sends Love to Dorothy

CHAPTER XXXIV.
MADAME RENÉ TELLS HER STORY

On the following day, when Donald again climbed the many flights of stairs and knocked at her door, he found Madame René alone. The pastry-cook advertisement had succeeded: Marie was gone to exercise her talents in behalf of a little hotel on the Seine, where, as she had assured her new employer, she would soon distinguish herself by her industry and sobriety. The almost empty apartment was perfectly neat. Madame René herself had brushed her threadbare gown with care, and, by the aid of spotless white collar and cuffs, given herself quite a holiday appearance. Very soon she and Donald, seated by the shining little window, were talking together in English and like old friends, as indeed they were. The reader shall hear her story in her own words, though not with all the interruptions of conversation under which it was given.

"It's no wonder you thought me a Frenchwoman, Mr. Donald. Many have thought the same of me, from the day I grew up. But though I look so like one, and speak the language readily, I was born in England. I studied French at school, and liked it best of all my lessons. In fact, I studied little else, and even spoke it to myself, for there was no one, excepting the French teacher, who could talk it with me. I never liked him. He was always pulling my ears and treating me like a child when I fancied myself almost a woman. Then I took to reading French stories and romances, and they turned my head. My poor home grew stupid to me, and I took it into my heart to run away and see if I could not get to be a great lady. About that time a French family moved into our neighborhood, and I was proud to talk with the children and to be told that I spoke 'like a native' (just as if I did!), and that, with my black hair and gray eyes, I looked like a Normandy girl. This settled it. I knew my parents never would consent to my leaving home, but I resolved to 'play' I was French, and get a situation in some English family as a French nurse – a real Normandy bonne with a high cap. I was seventeen then. The bonne in the latest romance I had read became a governess, and then married a marquis, the eldest son of her employer, and kept her carriage. Why should not some such wonderful thing happen to me? You see what a silly, wicked girl I was.

"Well, I ran away to another town, took the name of Eloise Louvain (my real name was Elizabeth Luff), and for a time I kept up my part and enjoyed it. The parents who engaged me could not speak French, and as for the children – dear, what a shame it was! – they got all they knew of the language from me. Then I went to live with Madame Lefevre, a Parisian. The lady mistrusted my accent when I spoke French to her, and asked me where I was born; but she seemed to like me for all that, and I stayed with her until she was taken ill and was ordered to the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle for cure. She did not get well, poor lady, and before long I was left in the strange city alone. I had the name of being very quiet, but I was not so by nature. You see I forced myself to speak only in French or broken English, and it was not always easy. At last I saw in a newspaper that a lady in Aix wanted a French maid to go with her to America. Here was my chance. Why, Mr. Donald, if you'll believe me, I wasn't sure but that if I went I'd in time be the bride of the President of America himself! You needn't laugh. Many's the silly girl – yes, and boy, too, for that matter – who gets ridiculous notions from reading romantic books. Well, I answered the advertisement, and then, sir, I became your mother's maid. By this time my French was so good that she might not have found me out; but she was so lovely, so sweet, and sharp withal, that I one day told her the whole truth, and it ended in my writing a letter home by her advice, sending my parents fifty francs, asking their forgiveness, begging them to consent to my going to America with my new lady, and telling them that I would send presents home to them as often as I could. When the answer came, with love from my mother, and signed 'your affectionate and forgiving father, John Luff,' I laughed and cried with joy, and forgot that I was a Normandy bonne. And a bonne I was in earnest, for my lady had the prettiest pair of twins any one could imagine, if I do say it to your face, and such lovely embroidered dresses, more than a yard long, the sleeves tied with the sweetest little ribbon bows – "

Here Donald interrupted the narrative: "What color were they, please?" he asked, at the same time taking out his note-book.

"Pink and blue," was the prompt reply. "Always blue on the boy and pink on the girl; my lady's orders were very strict on that point."

"Did – did the other baby – little Delia, you know – wear pink bows?"

"Not she; never anything but white, for her mamma insisted that white was the only thing for a baby."

"What about their hair?" Donald asked, still holding his note-book and looking at this item: "Girl's hair, yellow, soft, and curly. Boy's hair, pale-brown, very scanty."

"Their hair? Let me see. Why, as I remember, you hadn't any, sir, – at least, none to speak of; neither had the poor little cousin. But my little girl – Miss Dorothy, that is – had the most I ever saw on so young a child; it was golden-yellow, and so curly that it would cling to your fingers when you touched it. I always hated to put a cap on her, but Mrs. Reed had them both in caps from the first. So different from the other lady! She said caps worn all the time were too heating for little heads, and so her baby never had any; but it wore a loose hood when it was taken out in the air. I must hurry on with the story. You know the other baby was never at Aix. We met it and its parents at Havre, when my lady went there to take the steamer to America. You twins were not two months old. And a sad day that was indeed! For the good gentleman, your father – Heaven rest his soul! – died of a fever before you and Miss Dorothy had been in the world a fortnight. Oh, how my lady and the other lady cried about it when they came together! I used to feel so sorry when I saw them grieving, that, to forget it, I'd take you two babies out, one on each arm, and walk the street up and down in front of the hotel. I had become acquainted with a young Frenchman, a travelling photographer; and he, happening to be at Havre, saw me one morning as I was walking with the babies, and he invited me to go to his place, hard by, and have my picture taken, for nothing. It was a wilful thing to do with those two infants, after I had been allowed to walk only a short distance by the hotel; but it was a temptation, and I went. I wouldn't put down the babies though, so he had to take my picture sitting on a rock, with one twin on each arm. If you'll believe it, the babies came out beautifully in the picture, and I was almost as black as a coal. It was like a judgment on me, for I knew my lady would think it shocking in me to carry the two helpless twins to a photographer's."

"But the picture," said Donald, anxiously, "where is it? Have you it yet?"

"I'll tell you about that soon," Madame René answered quickly, as if unwilling to break the thread of her story. "The dear lady was so kind that I often had a mind to own up and show her the picture, but the thought of that ugly black thing sitting up so stiff and holding the little innocents, kept me back. It's well it did, too, – though it's rare any good thing comes out of a wrong, – for if I had, the picture would have gone down with the ship. Well, we sailed a few days after that, and at first the voyage was pleasant enough, though I had to walk the cabin with the babies, while my lady lay ill in her berth. The sea almost always affects the gentry, you know. The other lady was hardier, though sometimes ailing, and she and her husband tended their baby night and day, never letting it out of their arms when it was awake. Poor little thing, – gone these fifteen years!"

"Are you sure the little cousin was lost?" asked Donald, wondering how she knew.

"Why, Mr. Donald, I drew it from your not saying more about the child. Was she ever found? And her mother, the pretty lady, Mrs. Robbins, no, Robertson, – and my lady, your mother? I heard people saying that all were lost, except those of us who were in our boat. And I never knew to the contrary until now. Were they saved, sir?"

Donald shook his head sadly.

"Not one of them saved!" she exclaimed. "Ah me! how terrible! I had a sight of Mr. Robertson, with his baby in his arms – just one glimpse in the dreadful tumult. It all came on so suddenly, – every one screaming at once, and not a minute to spare. I could not find my lady, yet I fancied once I heard her screaming for her children; but I ran with them to the first deck, and tried to tie them to something – to a chair, I think, so they might float – I was frantic; but I had no rope, only my gown."

"Yes, yes," said Donald, longing to produce the pieces of black cloth which he had brought with him, but fearing to interrupt the narrative just then. "Please go on."

"I tore long strips from my gown, but I could not do anything with them; there was not time. The men were filling the boats, and I rushed to the side of the sinking vessel. No one could help me. I prayed to Heaven, and, screaming to the men in a boat below to catch them, I threw the babies out over the water. Whether they went into the boat or the water I could not tell; it seemed to me that some one shouted back. The next I knew, I was taken hold of by strong arms and lifted down into one of the boats. My lady was not there, nor the babies, nor any one of our party; all were strangers to me. For days we drifted, meeting no trace of any other boat from the ship, and living as best we could on a few loaves of bread and a jug of water that one of the sailors had managed to lower into our boat. We were picked up after a time and carried to Liverpool. But I was frightened at the thought of what I had done – perhaps the twins would have been saved with me if I had not thrown them down. I was afraid that some of their relatives in America would rise up and accuse me, you see, sir, and put me in disgrace. I had acted for the best, but would any one believe me? So when they asked my name, I gave the first I could think of, and said it was 'Ellen Lee,' and when they wondered at such a strange name for a French girl, as I appeared to be, I told them one of my parents was English, which was true enough. Not having been able to save a bit of my luggage, I was fain to take a little help from the ship's people. As I had been entered on the passenger-list only as Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid, they were satisfied when I said I was Ellen Lee. After getting safe ashore I kept my own counsel and hid myself. To this day I never have breathed a word about the shipwreck or my throwing out the babies – no, not to a living soul, save yourself, sir. Well, a woman gave me another gown, which was a help, and I soon found a place with a family in the country, fifteen miles from Liverpool, to sew for the family and tend the children. Of course I dropped the name of Ellen Lee the moment I left Liverpool, and I hoped to settle down to a peaceful life and faithful service. But I grew sadder all the time; nothing could cheer me up. Night and day, day and night, I was haunted by the thought of that awful hour."