John Baxendale was on his knees, hunting among some tools at the bottom of a closet; Mary was meekly exhibiting the progress of the nightgowns to Dobson, who sat in state, sour enough to turn milk into curd; the invalid was lying, pale, in her chair; while the young lady appeared to be assisting at the tool-hunting, on her knees also, and chattering as fast as her tongue could go. All looked up at the apparition of the stranger, who stood there gazing in upon them. 'Can you tell me where a gentleman of the name of Lewis lives?' she began, in an indirect, diplomatic, pleasant sort of way, for she no doubt deemed it well to discard violence for tact. In the humour she was in yesterday, she would have said, sharply and imperiously, 'Tell me the name of that man I saw now pass your gate.' John Baxendale rose. 'Lewis, ma'am? I don't know anybody of the name.' A pause. 'It is very unfortunate,' she mildly resumed. 'I am in search of the gentleman, and have not got his address. I believe he belongs to this neighbourhood. Indeed, I am almost sure I saw him talking to you just now at the gate--though my sight is none of the clearest from a distance. The same gentleman to whom that young lady nodded.' 'That was my uncle Henry,' called out the child. 'Who?' cried she, sharply. 'It was Mr. Henry Hunter, ma'am, that was,' spoke up Baxendale. 'Mr. Henry Hunter!' she repeated, as she knit her brow on John Baxendale. 'That gentleman is Mr. Lewis.' 'No, that he is not,' said John Baxendale. 'I ought to know, ma'am; I have worked for him for some years.' Here the mischief might have ended; there's no telling; but that busy little tongue of all tongues--ah! what work they make!--began clapping again. 'Perhaps you mean my papa? Papa's name is Lewis--James Lewis Hunter. But he is never called Mr. Lewis. He is brother to my uncle Henry.' A wild flush of crimson flashed over Miss Gwinn's sallow face. Something within her seemed to whisper that her search was over. 'It is possible I mistook the one for the other in the distance,' she observed, all her new diplomacy in full play. 'Are they alike in person?' she continued to John Baxendale. 'Not so much alike now, ma'am. In years gone by they were the very model of one another; but Mr. Hunter has grown stout, and it has greatly altered him. Mr. Henry looks just like what Mr. Hunter used to look.' 'And who are you, did you say?' she asked of Florence with an emphasis that would have been quite wild, but that it was in a degree suppressed. 'You are not Mr. Lewis Hunter's daughter?' 'I am,' said Miss Florence. 'And----you have a mother?' 'Of course I have,' repeated the child. A pause: the lady looked at John Baxendale. 'Then Mr. Lewis Hunter is a married man?' 'To be sure he is,' said John, 'ever so many years ago. Miss Florence is twelve.' 'Thank you,' said Miss Gwinn abruptly turning away. 'Good morning.'