CHAPTER III.

   LEONORA'S DISCOVERY.

   One wild winter night, when the sleet lashed the pane, my door suddenly opened. I started out of a slumber, and—could I believe my eyes? can history repeat itself?—there stood the friend of my early youth, her eyes ablaze, a cradle in her arms. Was it all coming round again? A moment's reflection showed me that it was

    not

   my early friend, but her daughter, Leonora.

   'Leonora,' I screamed, 'don't tell me that

    you

   ——'

   'I have deciphered the inscription,' said the girl proudly, setting down the cradle. The baby had

    not

   come round.

   'Oh, is

    that

   all?' I replied. 'Let's have a squint at it' (in my case no mere figure of speech).

   'What do you call

    that

   ?' said Leonora, handing me the accompanying document.

   'I call it pie,' said I, using a technical term of typography. 'I can't make head or tail of it,' I said peevishly.

   'Well, pie or no pie, I love it like pie, and I've broken the crust,' answered the girl, 'according to my interpretation, which I cannot mistrust.'

   'Why?' I asked.

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