Something in Uncle Johnny's face and his unexpected appearance drew an exclamation from each of the girls. Almost in the same voice, with no more greeting than to vigorously grasp him by shoulder and arm, they cried: "Did you find her? Have you come to stay?"
He hesitated just a moment and glanced questioningly at Mrs. Travis. Then for the first time the girls noticed that Mrs. Travis was very pale, that her eyes burned dark against the whiteness of her skin as though she had been racked by a great agitation and her hands clasped tightly the back of a chair. She nodded to John Westley.
"Yes, my search is ended. You see I had the right clue--though it was only the mention of a pair of eyes. Do you remember in Uncle Peter's letter about Craig Winton's eyes? 'They were glowing like they were lighted within.' Well, have you ever seen a pair of eyes like that? I have--only where Craig Winton's were sad with disappointment, these others glow from the pure joy of being alive----"
"_Jerry?_" interrupted Gyp, in a queer, tangled voice.
The girls stared at Jerry and Jerry stared at John Westley. Was he just joking? How _could_ it be? She turned to her mother. Her mother nodded again.
"Yes, dear, you are Jerauld Winton. But--we gave you your stepfather's name--he was so good to us!"
In that moment of unutterable surprise Jerry's loyal little heart went out quickly to Little-Dad.
"Oh, even if he _is_ a stepfather I love him just the same!" she exclaimed, wishing he was there that she might hug him.
"You see, beginning at this end made my search quicker. It was hindered a little, though, because the county courthouse at Waytown, where the records of Jerry's birth and Craig Winton's death were filed, burned a few years ago with everything in it. But I stumbled on an old codger who used to be postmaster at Waytown and he told me more in a few moments than all the Boston detectives had found in months. I went on to Boston to interview those old friends the lawyers there had found and then came back."
There was a puzzled look on each face. Hesitatingly, Jerry put the question that was in each mind.
"But, mother, why didn't you ever tell? Were you--ashamed?"
Her mother's face flared with color. She stepped forward and laid an entreating hand on Jerry's. "Oh, no--_no_!" she cried. "You must not think that--no one must. He--your father--was the finest man that ever lived. But he made me promise, when you were a wee, wee baby, that I would try to protect you from the bitterness of the world that had--broken his heart. Oh, he died of a broken heart, a broken spirit. He lived in his dreams, his inventions were a part of him--like his right arm! When they failed he suffered cruelly. Then he had one that he knew was good. But----" she stopped abruptly, remembering that these people were Westleys. "But he could never have been happy. He was not practical or--or sensible. His brain wore out his body--it was always, always working along one line. And before he--died, he seemed to have the fear that you might grow up to be like him--'a puppet for the thieves to fleece and feed upon,' he used to say. After he--died, we stayed on in Dr. Travis' cabin, where he had sheltered and cared for your father. He moved down into the village but, oh, he was so good to us! When, two years later I married him and we built this home, I vowed that I would keep only the blessed peace of Sunnyside for you. So I never told you of your own father and those dreadful years of poverty. But I was not _ashamed_!"