Geoffrey's victory;

The next morning there appeared an advertisement in the Boston Transcript, offering five hundred dollars to suitable parties who would adopt a female infant, and stating that applications were to be made by letter, addressed to the office of the paper.

Of course a great many answers were received, for there were hosts of people who would agree to almost anything for five hundred dollars, while there were others who were really anxious to adopt the little baby girl that was to be so strangely thrown upon the world.

One alone out of these many epistles pleased Mrs. Marston. It was written in a clear, elegant hand, signed “August and Alice Damon.”

It was from a young couple, and stated that only a month previous they had lost their own little daughter—a babe of a few weeks—and their hearts were so sore over their loss, their home so lonely and sad, that they would gladly take a little one to fill, as far as might be possible, the place of their lost darling, and if the child in question pleased them and there was nothing objectionable connected with her birth or antecedents, they would gladly adopt her without the payment of the premium that had been offered.

Mrs. Marston, after reading this communication, immediately dashed off a note asking the young people to call upon her at their earliest convenience—in case they were at liberty to do so, the next morning at ten o’clock; she would reserve that hour for them.

Promptly at that time a young gentleman and lady of prepossessing appearance were ushered into Mrs. Marston’s private parlor, and one glance into their kind and intelligent faces convinced her that she had found the right parties to whom to intrust her child.

“Mr. and Mrs. Damon,” Mrs. Marston said, graciously receiving them, and glancing at the cards that had been sent up before them to announce their arrival, “I am very much pleased to meet you.”

She invited them to be seated, and then entered at once upon the object of their visit.

“I have appointed an interview with you in preference to all other applicants,” she said, “because of the real interest and feeling evinced in your letter to me. But before we decide upon the matter under consideration, I would like to know something about you and your prospects for the future.”

Mr. August Damon, a fine-looking young man of perhaps twenty-five years, frankly informed the lady that their home was in Boston; that he was a clerk in a large wholesale boot and shoe house; his salary was a fair one, and there was a prospect that he might become a member of the firm at no very distant date, if all went well with the business. He said that both he and his wife were very fond of children, and had been almost heart-broken over the loss of their own child. They had resolved, if they could find one to whom their hearts turned, to adopt another, and bestow upon it, as far as might be, the love and care that their own child would have received if it had lived. They had seen her advertisement in the Transcript, and had determined to respond to it, hoping thus to succeed in their object.

“Nothing could be better,” Mrs. Marston eagerly said, in reply. “This is just the opportunity that I desire. I feel sure that you will give my little one the kindest care, and I shall relinquish her to you most willingly. I shall expect you will do by her exactly as you would have done by your own; that you will give her your name, educate her, and give her such advantages as your means will allow. This must be your part in our contract, while mine will be to renounce all claim upon her, and make over to you the amount which I specified in my advertisement.”

August Damon never once took his eyes from the face of that proud, beautiful woman while she was speaking. They burned with a strange fire, an indignant flush mantled his cheek, and an expression of contempt curled his fine lips.

His wife viewed the apparently heartless mother with speechless wonder, her eyes fastened upon her in a sort of horrible fascination.

Her sweet, delicate face was colorless as the snowy ruffle about her white neck, and she trembled visibly as she listened to her abrupt and apparently unfeeling disposal of a human soul.

There was an awkward pause after Mrs. Marston concluded, and she seemed to become suddenly conscious of the very unpleasant impression which her strange words and proceedings had produced upon her visitors, and a rush of vivid color mantled her cheeks.

She could not fail to realize that her guests were well-bred, even cultivated people; the stamp of true gentility was upon them, and it was extremely galling to her haughty spirit to feel that they had been weighing her in the balance of their own refined and noble natures, and had found her sadly wanting in all those gentler qualities and attributes which naturally belong to a woman, and especially to a mother.

But she was impatient of all restraint and discomfort. She threw off the feeling with the usual shrug of her shapely shoulders, and raising her handsome head with a haughty air she continued, somewhat imperiously:

“Do you accede to the conditions that I have mentioned; and you, madame?” turning her great dark eyes full upon the gentle but shocked wife.

“Oh, how can you bear to part thus with your little one, the darling whose pulses are throbbing with your own life-blood?” exclaimed sweet Alice Damon, tears starting to her earnest, gray-blue eyes, her delicate lips trembling with emotion.

“That is a question that I cannot allow myself to consider,” responded Mrs. Marston, with a peculiar gesture of her jeweled hands, which might have meant either pain or repugnance, “neither can I enter into any explanation upon that point; the fact remains, I must part with her, and it is my wish to make the best possible provision for her.”

“We should be glad to see the child, madam,” Mr. Damon gravely remarked.

“Of course. I will have her brought in immediately;” and Mrs. Marston arose to ring a bell.

A moment later a portly matron entered the room bearing in her arms a lovely babe about a month old, arrayed in a richly embroidered robe, and wrapped in the softest and whitest of flannels.

Alice Damon uttered an eager cry, in which the tenderest mother-love and the keenest pain were blended, as she caught sight of the beautiful child who recalled so vividly her own lost treasure.

Starting from her seat she glided swiftly over the soft carpet, and the next moment the tiny creature was clasped close to her aching heart, while a sob burst from her as she pressed her quivering lips to its velvet cheek. Then she turned to her husband with it still in her arms.

“Oh, August, she is lovely!” she murmured, in husky, unsteady tones. “And, dear, my heart longs for her!”

Mr. Damon stood looking down upon the two for a moment, while he seemed struggling with some deep emotion.

He took one of the little soft hands that lay outside the heavily wrought blanket tenderly in his own, and bent for a nearer view of the small face.

“Her eyes are blue,” he said, under his breath.

“Yes, like our own darling’s. Oh, August, we will take her, will we not?” pleaded his wife, eagerly.

A look of fondest love leaped into his eyes as they met hers, but he did not reply to her just then.

He turned again to Mrs. Marston.

“I have an important question which I feel it necessary to ask you?” he began.

“In a moment,” she returned, and signed to the nurse to withdraw.

“Now, if you please,” she added, as the door closed after the woman.

“Is your child legitimate? If you can assure me of that, and that nothing of dishonor can ever touch her in the future, and that, as far as you know, she inherits no taint of insanity or incurable disease, I see no reason why we should not accede to your conditions and adopt the babe as our own.”

Mrs. Marston’s face had grown crimson during this speech, and her eyes flamed with anger.

Twice that week she had been obliged to meet this humiliating suspicion, and it was more than her proud spirit could endure.

“Do you presume——” she began, haughtily.

“Madame,” August Damon interrupted, gravely, but with the utmost respect, “pray do not accuse me of presumption when I have only the well-being of your own child at heart. If you will but consider a moment you cannot fail to realize that it is both natural and proper I should wish to be assured that the child I contemplate taking as my own is of honorable parentage, and with no heritage of future misery hanging over her. We shall, of course, use every precaution to prevent her from ever realizing that she is not our very own; but there may come a time when unforeseen events will lead her to suspect the truth, and then she will demand to be told her history. I must have it in my power to tell her that no story of shame, no stain, was attached to her birth.”

The gentleman’s tone was firm but courteous, and the proud woman before him realized a pride as deep-seated as her own, and that she had no common character to deal with.

He had a perfect right to ask her these questions, she knew, and she was bound to answer them in all sincerity.

The anger died out of her eyes; the color left her face, and there was more humility in her manner than she had before displayed, as she replied:

“Mr. Damon, I assure you that you need never fear even a breath against the fair fame or parentage of my child. I was legally married to a noble, high-minded gentleman, on the 15th of last March, although the ceremony was not performed in this country. More I cannot tell you regarding my private history. As to the little one’s constitution, she inherits no taint of disease or mental trouble that I am aware of. I have always enjoyed vigorous health, as my physique at the present time ought to prove to you.

“I know,” she continued, after a moment of thoughtful silence, “that the giving away of my child, when to all appearance there is no necessity for such an unusual act, appears like a monstrous proceeding; but I am so situated that I cannot help myself; the need is imperative—a relentless fate compels me to the unnatural act. I can tell you nothing more; if you see fit to adopt the babe, after hearing this, well and good; if not, I must reply to some other application, and make other arrangements for her.”

“I am satisfied with what you have told me, and the child shall come to us. Alice, she is yours if you so wish,” said the young husband, turning with a fond smile to his fair wife.

“I do wish it, August. I could not give her up now. See! how content she is!” and the sweet woman looked lovingly down at the little face lying so peacefully upon her bosom.

“You are willing to make the gift a legal one, I suppose,” said Mr. Damon, turning again to Mrs. Marston, who, with a look of intense relief upon her face, was closely watching the young couple.

“If you mean by that that I will sign papers to ratify the bond, I must say, No!” the woman replied, with decision.

“Of what use would such papers be,” she went on, “since I could not place my real signature upon them, and the name, by which I am known to you to-day, would amount to nothing, legally. I can only give her to you here, now, in this informal way. Take her—she is yours; and may she be a great comfort to you during your future lives.”

“I see,” replied Mr. Damon, “papers of adoption would amount to nothing;” but, nevertheless, he did not appear very well satisfied with this conclusion.

“And here is the future little Miss Damon’s dowry,” continued Mrs. Marston, with a smile, as she took a roll of bills from the same drawer whence she had paid Dr. Turner, “and I cannot begin to tell you how much of gratitude goes with it.”

“Madame, I cannot accept your money,” August Damon said, flushing hotly, as he drew back from the proffered bribe; for such it seemed to him.

“I am rich; I wish you to have it,” said the lady.

“It is the child that we want, for her own sake, not for what you offer as an inducement to adopt her,” returned the young man, with dignity.

“But I must insist,” Mrs. Marston replied. “If you have no immediate use for it, put it at interest somewhere for her, and let it accumulate for a marriage portion. You will have to name her,” she resumed, with a glance at the little one. “Call her whatever you wish, and may she prove a real blessing to you.”

She approached Alice Damon as she spoke, laid the roll of bills between the soft, pink hands of the now sleeping babe, bent over her and imprinted a light kiss upon her cheek, then turning quickly away, she bowed to the husband and wife and walked abruptly from the room.

A half-hour later the mysterious little stranger was sleeping peacefully in the dainty cradle that had once held Alice Damon’s namesake, while two tender, earnest faces bent fondly over her, as husband and wife prayed that she might long be spared to be a comfort and a blessing to them, and never realize the shadow that rested upon her birth.

The next morning, at an early hour, Mrs. Marston and her “maid” quietly left the —— House, and the city, leaving no address, nor any clew to their destination behind them.