There was a happy scene next day at the Parker home when Mrs. Harvey,
a sweet-faced woman of middle age, arrived. After one look at Wren she
swayed and then, recovering herself, called out in the voice that only
a mother knows:
"Sylvia!"
"Mother!" screamed the child, and rushed into her open arms.
The tide of memory, driven to low ebb by ill-treatment and hardship,
had rushed back with full force. The Wren, the gipsy waif, was once
more Sylvia Harvey. A doctor said later that such cases were frequent
following a severe shock. It was then that they recalled how the child
had almost recollected some of her past life during the thunderstorm.
The happiness of little Wren and her mother in their reunion was shared
by all of the party who had been instrumental in effecting it, for every
one of them, including Jake, had become attached to the quiet little
girl and rejoiced in her good fortune.
When Mrs. Harvey and Sylvia departed for the railway station the
following day behind a pair of Mr. Parker's steady horses they were
accompanied by the four aeroplanes, which hovered over them like so
many sturdy guardian angels.
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