Jack's Ward; Or, The Boy Guardian

"Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my child you have cared for so long. Oh! why could I not have known it before? How many lonely days and sleepless nights it would have spared me! But God be thanked for this late blessing! I shall see my child again."

"I hope so, madam. We must find her."

"What is your name, my young friend?"

"My name is Harding—Jack Harding."

"Jack?" repeated the lady, smiling.

"Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to be called John."

"Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's heart at once, and made him think her, if any more beautiful than Ida; "as Ida is your adopted sister—"

"I call her my ward. I am her guardian, you know."

"You are a young guardian. But, as I was about to say, that makes us connected in some way, doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Harding, for that would sound too formal. I will call you Jack."

"I wish you would," said our hero, his face brightening with pride.

It almost upset him to be called Jack by a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a splendor which it seemed to Jack could not be exceeded even by royal state. Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.

"Now, Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, in a friendly manner which delighted our hero, "we must take measures to discover Ida immediately. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far toward finding her."

Jack began at the beginning and described the appearance of Mrs. Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under false representations, and the manner in which he had tracked her to Philadelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusal to impart any information as to where Ida was concealed.

Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were more difficulties in the way than she had supposed.

"Can you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, anxiously.

"Yes, madam," answered Jack. "The man who painted the picture of Ida may know where she is to be found."

"You are right," said the lady. "I will act upon your hint. I will order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back to the print store."

An hour later Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant lady to his studio, accompanied by a young man of seventeen.

"I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower Girl,'" said Mrs. Clifton.

"I am, madam."

"It was taken from life?"

"You are right."

"I am anxious to find the little girl whose face you copied. Can you give me any directions that will enable me to find her?"

"I will accompany you to the place where she lives, if you desire it, madam," said the young artist, politely. "It is a strange neighborhood in which to look for so much beauty."

"I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," said Mrs. Clifton. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders."

Once more they were on the move. In due time the carriage paused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalized at the idea of bringing his mistress to such a place.

"This can't be the place, madam," he said.

"Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, Mrs. Clifton. I will go in, and find out all that is needful."

Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

"We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and took away the child."

Mrs. Clifton sank back in her seat in keen disappointment.

"My child! my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"

Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge. He could not conjecture what gentleman could have carried away Ida. The affair seemed darker and mere complicated than ever.

CHAPTER XXXIII

IDA IS FOUND

Ida was sitting alone in the dreary apartment which she was now obliged to call home. Peg had gone out, and, not feeling quite certain of her prey, had bolted the door on the outside. She had left some work for the child—some handkerchiefs to hem for Dick—with strict orders to keep steadily at work.

While seated at work, she was aroused from thoughts of home by a knock at the door.

"Who's there?" asked Ida.

"A friend," was the reply.

"Mrs. Hardwick—Peg—isn't at home," returned Ida.

"Then I will come in and wait till she comes back," answered the voice outside.

"I can't open the door," said the child. "It's fastened outside."

"Yes, so I see. Then I will take the liberty to draw the bolt."

Mr. John Somerville opened the door, and for the first time in seven years his glance fell upon the child whom for so long a time he had defrauded of a mother's care and tenderness.

Ida returned to the window.

"How beautiful she is!" thought Somerville, with surprise. "She inherits all her mother's rare beauty."

On the table beside Ida was a drawing. "Whose is this?" he inquired.

"Mine," answered Ida.

"So you have learned to draw?"

"A little," answered the child, modestly.