Harvey Bradley sat down on the stool from which he had arisen, first
drawing it closer to the fire, and unfastened the outer clothing of the
little one. He saw that all was well with her. Then he looked up with
moistened eyes and said in a tremulous voice:
"Hugh, tell me all about it."
The short story was soon told. The hardy fellow made light of what he
had done, but the superintendent, who kept his eyes fixed on his face,
saw the sparkle of tears that the speaker could not keep back. It was
hard for any one of the three to believe that only a brief while before
they were ready to fly at each other's throats. Harvey was melted not
only by the rescue of his sister, but by the remembrance of the
dreadful injustice done Hugh O'Hara and his friends, when he allowed
himself to think they had taken part in the disappearance of Dollie,
who, through all the talk, continued sleeping.
"I can never thank you for what you have done," said the
superintendent, hardly able to master his emotion, "but I shall show
you that the charge of ingratitude can never be laid at my door."
"That's all right," replied Hugh, in his off-hand fashion; "Tom and I
are glad to do a turn like that; nobody could want to see any harm come
to such a child, no matter how they might feel toward others related to
her. Do you mean to take her home to-night?"
"Yes; her aunt is frantic with grief."
"But Tom can run down there quicker than you can with the little one.
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