“I will if I like you,” said the Angel stoutly, “and if I don’t, I won’t!”
“But I began all wrong, and now I don’t know how to make you like me,” said his lordship, with sincere penitence in his tone.
The Angel found herself yielding to his voice. He spoke in a soft, mellow, smoothly flowing Irish tone, and although his speech was perfectly correct, it was so rounded, and accented, and the sentences so turned, that it was Freckles over again. Still, it was a matter of the very greatest importance, and she must be sure; so she looked into the beautiful woman’s face.
“Are you his wife?” she asked.
“Yes,” said the woman, “I am his wife.”
“Well,” said the Angel judicially, “the Bird Woman says no one in the whole world knows all a man’s bignesses and all his littlenesses as his wife does. What you think of him should do for me. Do you like him?”
The question was so earnestly asked that it met with equal earnestness. The dark head moved caressingly against Lord O’More’s sleeve.
“Better than anyone in the whole world,” said Lady O’More promptly.
The Angel mused a second, and then her legal tinge came to the fore again.
“Yes, but have you anyone you could like better, if he wasn’t all right?” she persisted.
“I have three of his sons, two little daughters, a father, mother, and several brothers and sisters,” came the quick reply.
“And you like him best?” persisted the Angel with finality.
“I love him so much that I would give up every one of them with dry eyes if by so doing I could save him,” cried Lord O’More’s wife.
“Oh!” cried the Angel. “Oh, my!”
She lifted her clear eyes to Lord O’More’s and shook her head.
“She never, never could do that!” she said. “But it’s a mighty big thing to your credit that she thinks she could. I guess I’ll tell you why I came.”
She laid down the paper, and touched the portrait.
“When you were only a boy, did people call you Freckles?” she asked.
“Dozens of good fellows all over Ireland and the Continent are doing it today,” answered Lord O’More.
The Angel’s face wore her most beautiful smile.
“I was sure of it,” she said winningly. “That’s what we call him, and he is so like you, I doubt if any one of those three boys of yours are more so. But it’s been twenty years. Seems to me you’ve been a long time coming!”
Lord O’More caught the Angel’s wrists and his wife slipped her arms around her.
“Steady, my girl!” said the man’s voice hoarsely. “Don’t make me think you’ve brought word of the boy at this last hour, unless you know surely.”
“It’s all right,” said the Angel. “We have him, and there’s no chance of a mistake. If I hadn’t gone to that Home for his little clothes, and heard of you and been hunting you, and had met you on the street, or anywhere, I would have stopped you and asked you who you were, just because you are so like him. It’s all right. I can tell you where Freckles is; but whether you deserve to know—that’s another matter!”
Lord O’More did not hear her. He dropped in his chair, and covering his face, burst into those terrible sobs that shake and rend a strong man. Lady O’More hovered over him, weeping.
“Umph! Looks pretty fair for Freckles,” muttered the Angel. “Lots of things can be explained; now perhaps they can explain this.”
They did explain so satisfactorily that in a few minutes the Angel was on her feet, hurrying Lord and Lady O’More to reach the hospital. “You said Freckles’ old nurse knew his mother’s picture instantly,” said the Angel. “I want that picture and the bundle of little clothes.”
Lady O’More gave them into her hands.
The likeness was a large miniature, painted on ivory, with a frame of beaten gold. Surrounded by masses of dark hair was a delicately cut face. In the upper part of it there was no trace of Freckles, but the lips curving in a smile were his very own. The Angel gazed at it steadily. Then with a quivering breath she laid the portrait aside and reached both hands to Lord O’More.
“That will save Freckles’ life and insure his happiness,” she said positively. “Thank you, oh thank you for coming!”
She opened the bundle of yellow and brown linen and gave only a glance at the texture and work. Then she gathered the little clothes and the picture to her heart and led the way to the cab.
Ushering Lord and Lady O’More into the reception room, she said to McLean, “Please go call up my father and ask him to come on the first train.”
She closed the door after him.
“These are Freckles’ people,” she said to the Bird Woman. “You can find out about each other; I’m going to him.”
XIX
Wherein Freckles finds his birthright and the Angel loses her heart.
The nurse left the room quietly, as the Angel entered, carrying the bundle and picture. When they were alone, she turned to Freckles and saw that the crisis was indeed at hand.
That she had good word to give him was his salvation, for despite the heavy plaster jacket that held his body immovable, his head was lifted from the pillow. Both arms reached for her. His lips and cheeks flamed, while his eyes flashed with excitement.
“Angel,” he panted. “Oh Angel! Did you find them? Are they white? Are the little stitches there? Oh Angel! Did me mother love me?”
The words seemed to leap from his burning lips. The Angel dropped the bundle on the bed and laid the picture face down across his knees. She gently pushed his head to the pillow and caught his arms in a firm grasp.
“Yes, dear heart,” she said with fullest assurance. “No little clothes were ever whiter. I never in all my life saw such dainty, fine, little stitches; and as for loving you, no boy’s mother ever loved
