A week after these events, Sansoucy sat late at night
in his office, thinking sadly of the fate of Lucia, and pondering,
as all men do at some time of their lives, upon the
mystery, and strangeness of the great system, which illustrated
itself thus, by what seemed so discouraging to faith
and hope.

He ceased at last to think upon the matter, and gave
up the struggle. That struggle of his mind and heart
would surely never have taken place, if he had known the
vision of the child—he would have seen without difficulty
that what seemed death was life; that what to him appeared
to be a cruel and terrible misfortune, was, in truth,
the act of an all-wise and supremely merciful power; and
that the faintness in which she passed away, was but the
cloud hiding the everlasting light.

He dismissed all these thoughts at last, however—he

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thought no longer of the despair of Wide-Awake and Ellie,
when they followed her footsteps and saw all—of the
weeping boy, as he stood beside the hillock on the hill,
across the river, where she had asked them to lay her—of
the tears shed by Aurelia, when he told her of the sad event.

His own future busied his thoughts, and he again read
the letter from his father, lying on his knee, and mused.
It said how happy his marriage with Aurelia would make
every one at Sunnyside—how his mother, who would write
to him immediately, sent him her love and blessing—and
how he must now give up his editorial life and come and
aid the failing strength of his father, in the management
of the estate, which needed him. All this, Sansoucy read
again and attentively considered. His whole heart assented
to this future, and thinking of Aurelia, he was beginning
to smile again, when a step ascended—stopped at his
door—and without knocking or asking his permission
a woman entered.

It was the miserably clad woman, whom he had nearly
run over, on the day of his sleigh-ride.

“You!” said Sansoucy, “you, at last! and at this
late hour!”

“All hours are the same to me,” said the woman, sinking
into a seat, and covering her face, “I like the midnight
better than morning.”

Sansoucy gazed at her in astonishment, and saw that
her breast heaved beneath the tattered wrapping of her
person.

“You excited my curiosity strangely, when we met some
weeks ago,” he said, “you seemed to know my father.”

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“Yes,” murmured the woman, “I knew you were his
son.”

“How?”

“From the likeness.”

“When did you know him?—what is this mystery?—
speak! for you are evidently sane!”

“I doubt it sometimes,” said the woman, in a low voice,
“I have had enough to try my brain.”

“Enough!”

“That is I have been guilty of enough—”

Sansoucy gazed closely at her, and said:

“Guilty!”

“Yes,” she murmured, hoarsely, “deeply guilty, and
toward you—toward your father—toward your mother,
and all your family!”

The woman paused, and seemed to be overwhelmed with
emotion. Mr. Sansoucy gazed at her with the profoundest
astonishment, and was silent.

“This is all folly in me,” said the woman, regaining
her voice, and speaking with more distinctness, “I did
not come here to make you pity me—I came to try and
ask you to help me—to do away with the consequences of
my crime. It affects you, sir, and if you will listen, I will
tell you all.

Mr. Sansoucy remained silent, and lost in astonishment.
He gazed for some moments at the woman, who seemed
to avoid his eye, and then seeing that she waited for some
reply, said:

“Speak! I will listen.”

“Do not interrupt me.”

[figure description] Page 555.[end figure description]

“I will endeavor not to—but speak! A crime! and
a crime connected with my family—speak!”

“Yes—connected with your family ten years ago.”

“Ten years!—”

“Listen, sir, and I will explain everything,” said the
woman, and pausing to collect her strength, she went on:
“Ten years ago, your mother engaged as a nurse for her
baby, a woman who was the wife of a German laborer,
whom she had married, and who was so poor that she was
obliged to leave him, and take some separate employment
to support herself—gain daily bread. Your mother heard
of this woman, who was an American woman, in this great
poverty—and from motives of charity—she engaged her
to nurse her own child, which her bad health rendered it
impossible for her to do herself. The woman had lost her
only child, herself, a short time before—and she was glad
to gain employment which promised to maintain her in
comfort. She had no feeling higher than that—she was
dull and gross, but a woman of violent and bitter passions
when she was aroused; she never forgave any one, and
had frequently come to blows with her husband whom she
despised and ruled, for he became afraid of her at last.”

Sansoucy gazed with a vague look of wonder at the
woman, as though a thought were struggling in his mind
to which he could not give words.

“The woman went to your father's,” his visitor continued,
hoarsely; “and for a time was perfectly satisfied,
and lived more happily than she had ever done before.
But gradually she found reasons to dislike her employer—
he was a high-minded man, but with a temper when he

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was aroused, as violent as her own.—Do not stop me, sir,
let me get through!—and this violence of temper upon
both sides caused the woman and Mr. Sansoucy to quarrel
more than once. The woman was afraid of losing her
situation, and kept down her feelings—that is she did not
utter them—but they were all the more violent on that
account from being suppressed. Her habits were bad
sometimes—she had acquired a fondness for brandy in her
poverty—and whenever Mr. Sansoucy found that she had
been drinking anything, his anger knew no bounds.

“Things went on in this way for more than six months,”
continued the speaker; “and all this time the woman's
hatred and revengeful passions had been increasing, and
growing more bitter and black. She began to think how
she could be revenged upon him—let me, speak, sir! if
you start so I can't go on. She thought of a dozen ways
to revenge herself on him, but was afraid to do anything,
and waited. One day, however, she drank more brandy
than usual, and came in with the baby in her arms reeling.
Mr. Sansoucy was already nettled about something, and
his passions were driven to fury by the sight of the
woman's condition. He tore the baby from her arms—
struck her on the face with his open hand, and taking her
by the shoulder, dragged her out of the room and threw
her off like a dog. This made the cup run over—her
drunkenness gave way to a fury and thirst for revenge so
deep that she grew almost mad. She made up her things
in a bundle—went into the nursery at night—and while
all were sleeping took the sleeping child, and carried it
away with her, and in spite of all pursuit, gained this city,

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worn out with weakness, but burning with hatred and
revenge! Your eyes are like fire, sir! but let me go
on—don't look at me! From this place the woman, who
had schooling and knew very well how to write, wrote a
letter to your father, taunting him with his failure to find
her, and declaring that she would sail that day to a
foreign country, and place the child in the hands of those
who would beat and cripple and starve it, and bring it up
to all the vices of a great city—she would do this if she
did not kill it, as she had the right to do in return for his
blow—her letter said all this, sir.”

The woman trembled from head to foot as she spoke,
and did not dare to look at Mr. Sansoucy, whose eyes
glared in his deadly pale face, like coals of fire.

“Go—on!” he said, hoarsely.

“The woman did sail,” the visitor continued; “she did
go to foreign parts in a trading sloop, which sailed that
very day—”

“And took the child!” cried Mr. Sansoucy, seizing her
wrist and speaking through his clenched teeth; “dare to
say!—”

“She left it behind,” said the woman, trembling; “but
you frighten me, sir!—”

Sansoucy drew back and clutched the arm of his chair,
until the wood cracked.

“Go on!” he said, hoarsely.

“The woman was afraid—she was poor—she knew that
the letter itself was a bitter revenge—she wrapped the
child just as it was in a blanket, and on the night she
sailed—left it lying at the door of a poor-looking house,

[figure description] Page 558.[end figure description]

which a woman seemed to occupy, in one of the streets of
this place. She got her passage in the sloop by agreeing
to work and help—and she staid away long enough to
drink the dregs of misery and want. She then felt how
despicable she was—she determined to come back, and
try to restore the child; she met its elder brother, and
was nearly killed by his horses as she deserved—I was
the woman, and you can punish me as you choose!”

She stopped—breathing heavily, and avoiding his eye.

“I tried to find the child—I have been searching day
and night,” she added hoarsely; “we did not live here,
then, though my husband has moved here, now. I did
not take notice of the street. I do not know if the child
is alive, even. I come to tell you that the rest remains
with you; I have done all I could. I have bitterly
repented, and am ready to submit to any thing you order,
or any punishment you inflict!”

Her head sank as she uttered these nearly inaudible
words, and she dared not look at Mr. Sansoucy. At
last she raised her eyes, and gazed, almost with terror
upon him. His face was as pale as death—his lips—
gnawed until they bled, that his emotion should not carry
him away—were tightly drawn over his closed teeth, and
his eyes burned into the woman's very brain with a terrible
intensity of anger, horror, and disgust.

But this expression yielded, in a few moments, to one
of pain and anguish: and, turning away his head, he
said, with a hoarse moan:

“Go! you have brought up all we have suffered by
your crime, again—go! My sister is dead!—or, if not

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dead, lost to us. Your punishment lies with God—go!
go from me!”

And he pointed to the door with such agony and sternness,
that the woman was driven, as it were, by his look,
and heavily, step after step, with her eyes fixed upon him,
obeyed and disappeared.

Sansoucy's face sank in his hands, and from the bottom
of his heart a passionate sob tore its way to his lips: and
he cried, in a tone of cruel anguish:

“Oh, my sister!—oh, my poor, poor mother!”

The long hours of the night passed over him one by
one, and the last found him in the same position as at
first—his face covered with his hands, his breast heaving,
his fingers wet with tears, which streamed between them,
speaking with that dreadful eloquence, which, in such
eyes, they possess. There are tears which, as they fall,
seem to burn and flame up, like some terrible acid,
poisonous and frightful—let those who cause such, beware
what they do.

Morning came at last, and, still motionless, Sansoucy
revolved in his feverish brain, the course which he should
pursue. He would move heaven and earth, but he would
know where his sister was, or when and how she had
died—he would throw from him everything, love and
business, and hope and memory; that search should
absorb his life, and he would force the secret from the
very jaws of silence! As he rose, pale and calm, a voice
at his door, made him start.

It was a servant, who held in his hand a note.

“What is it?” he said.

[figure description] Page 560.[end figure description]

“From Miss Aurelia, sir.”

He took it, and opened it.

“And this I was to give you, too, sir,” added the servant,
giving Mr. Sansoucy a small package.

Mr. Sansoucy caught it from his hand, and motioning
him away abruptly, sank into a chair, and tore open the
package.

The note told him, that in handling the lace cap she
had received as a prize at the fair, she had found in the
lining—carefully sewed in—what she had sent him.

The package contained the baby's lace cap, and in a
small piece of white tissue paper, a little flat golden clasp
for the arm of a child.

Upon this plate was engraved, in distinct letters,
“Ellen Sansoucy,”

For a moment, Mr. Sansoucy felt as if he was about to
faint: then he rose like a giant, and, seizing his hat, went
hastily down stairs.

With inconceivable rapidity he hurried to Mr. Ashton's—
learned where the books of the Fair, containing the
names of contributors were to be found; discovered from
them that the lace cap, with the rest of the dress, had
been contributed to the table where the lottery was held,
by Monsieur Guillemot's friend, Madam “Angelique,” as
he called her:—and then, devoured with excitement, he
leaped into a carriage, and bade the driver gallop to the
shop. Ten minutes after entering it, he had learned that
the dress had been pawned—the shopkeeper recollected
very well that it had been brought by Ellie; and five
minutes after receiving this information, Mr. Sansoucy

p506-572 [figure description] Page 561.[end figure description]

had in his arms, pressed to his heart, the form of Ellie,
whose face he covered with his kisses and his tears.

Ellen Lacklitter was Ellen Sansoucy, his long-lost
little sister.