Jack's Ward; Or, The Boy Guardian

He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly troubled by the thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody, he was apparently no nearer the discovery of his young ward than before. What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide. In his perplexity his eyes rested suddenly upon the print of the "Flower Girl."

"Yes," he said, "that is Ida, fast enough. Perhaps they will know in the store where she is to be found."

He at once entered the store.

"Can you tell me anything about the girl in that picture?" he asked, abruptly, of the nearest clerk.

"It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think you would need a long time to find the original."

"It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. That is a picture of my sister."

"Of your sister!" repeated the salesman, with surprise, half incredulous.

"Yes," persisted Jack. "She is my sister."

"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she is."

Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes also were fixed upon the "Flower Girl."

"Who is this?" she asked, in visible excitement. "Is it taken from life?"

"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.

"Your sister?" repeated the lady, her eyes fixed inquiringly upon Jack.

In her tone there was a mingling both of surprise and disappointment.

"Yes, madam," answered Jack, respectfully.

"Pardon me," she said, "there is very little personal resemblance. I should not have suspected that you were her brother."

"She is not my own sister," explained Jack, "but I love her just the same."

"Do you live in Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the lady, eagerly.

"I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from us about three weeks since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I have not been able to find her yet."

"Did you call her Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation.

"Yes, madam."

"My young friend," said the woman, rapidly, "I have been much interested in the story of your sister. I should like to hear more, but not here. Would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me the rest? Then we will together concert measures for recovering her."

"You are very kind, madam," said Jack, bashfully; for the lady was elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to converse with a lady of her social position. "I shall be glad to go home with you, and shall be very much obliged for your advice and assistance."

"Then we will drive home at once."

With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and, at her bidding, got in himself.

"Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast as possible."

"Yes, madam."

"How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs. Clifton.

Jack afterward ascertained that this was her name.

"About a year old, madam."

"And how long since was that?" asked the lady, waiting for the answer with breathless interest.

"Seven years since. She is now eight."

"It must be," murmured the lady, in low tones. "If it is indeed, as I hope, my life will indeed be blessed."

"Did you speak, madam?"

"Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted her."

Jack related briefly how Ida had been left at their door in her infancy.

"And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"

"It was at the close of December, the night before New Year's."

"It is, it must be she!" ejaculated Mrs. Clifton, clasping her hands, while tears of joy welled from her eyes.

"I—I don't understand," said Jack, naturally astonished.

"My young friend," said the lady, "our meeting this morning seems providential. I have every reason to believe that this child—your adopted sister—is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which I speak. From that day to this I have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery. I have long taught myself to think of her as dead."

It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside him. She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion, the same soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully like Ida's. Jack looked, and as he looked he became convinced.

"You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."

"You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

"Yes, madam."

"I had a picture—a daguerreotype—taken of Ida just before I lost her; I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you when we get to my house."

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street. The driver dismounted and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs. Clifton to alight.

Bashfully our hero followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant parlor furnished with a splendor which excited his admiration and wonder. He had little time to look about him, for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to remove her street attire, hastened downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

"Can you remember Ida when she was first brought to your house?" she asked. "Did she look anything like this picture?"

"It is her image," answered Jack, decidedly. "I should know it anywhere."