"But it's a mighty big thing
to your credit that she THINKS she could. I guess I'll tell you why I
came."
She laid down the paper, and touched the portrait.
"When you were only a boy, did people call you Freckles?" she asked.
"Dozens of good fellows all over Ireland and the Continent are doing it
today," answered Lord O'More.
The Angel's face wore her most beautiful smile.
"I was sure of it," she said winningly. "That's what we call him, and he
is so like you, I doubt if any one of those three boys of yours are
more so. But it's been twenty years. Seems to me you've been a long time
coming!"
Lord O'More caught the Angel's wrists and his wife slipped her arms
around her.
"Steady, my girl!" said the man's voice hoarsely. "Don't make me think
you've brought word of the boy at this last hour, unless you know
surely."
"It's all right," said the Angel. "We have him, and there's no chance
of a mistake. If I hadn't gone to that Home for his little clothes, and
heard of you and been hunting you, and had met you on the street, or
anywhere, I would have stopped you and asked you who you were, just
because you are so like him.
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