"No?" said Amy with a sigh; "you see mamma married twice, and all her friends were so displeased at her marrying papa, that they never spoke to her again. They took away her children from her, so that I never saw my brother and sister."
"You have a brother and sister, then," said Allan eagerly. "If they only knew you they would be glad to take care of you now that your poor father is gone. Blood is thicker than water, as we Scotch folk say."
"No," said Amy, "I don't think that they would. Papa wrote to them that mamma was ill, and then afterwards that mamma was dead, and they took no notice of the letter—not the slightest notice. I cannot write to them. I cannot ask anything from them. I would rather stay with you and your father and mother, who speak so kindly to me. Oh! I so often dream of that brother and sister, and try to make them like me and to be sorry about dear mamma, but it always fails—it always fails. Never even in my dreams have they given me a kind word. But don't speak about this to anybody. I tell you now because I cannot help it, and because my heart is full—too full," and the girl leaned on Allan's bench and wept.
The inquest resulted in a verdict of "Acci-
