"Ah!" he exclaimed, "a letter, beginning 'dearest Aliva,'—that's your mother's name, Thames. It has instead found you. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. On examining the door, he found it secured by a large rusty lock, which he endeavoured to pick with the nail he had just acquired; but all his efforts proving ineffectual, he removed the plate that covered it with the bar, and with his fingers contrived to draw back the bolt. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story.
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