“There, Clubs and I will stay here, I guess,” said the Judge, stopping beneath a tall hemlock, which grew within a dozen rods of the building. Mildred made no answer, but moved resolutely on until she had crossed the threshold of the hut, where she involuntarily paused, while a nameless feeling of terror crept over her, everything around her was so gloomy and so still. In the farthest extremity of the apartment a single spot of moonlight, shining through the rafters above, fell upon the old-fashioned cupboard, from which two rats, startled by Mildred’s steps, sprang out, and, running across the floor, disappeared in the vicinity of the broad stone hearth. Aside from this there was no sign of life, and Mildred was beginning to think of turning back, when a voice, between a whisper and a hiss, came to her ear from the dark corner where the shadows lay deepest, and where a human form crouched upon the floor. “Mildred Howell,” the voice said, “is that you?” Instantly Mildred grasped the oaken mantel to keep herself from falling; for, with that question, the human form arose and came so near to her that the haggish face and projecting tooth were plainly visible. “You tremble,” the figure said; “but you need not be afraid. I am not here to hurt you. I loved your mother too well for that.” There was magic in that word, and it unlocked at once the daughter’s heart and divested it of all fear. Just then the moon passed from under a cloud, and through a paneless window, shone full upon the eager, expectant face of the beautiful young girl, who, grasping the hand of the strange old woman, said, imploringly: “Did you really know my mother,—my own mother?” “Yes,” returned the woman; “I knew her well. I was with her when she died. I laid her in the coffin. I followed her to the grave, carrying you in my arms, and then I did with you what she bade me do,—I laid you at Judge Howell’s door, and stood watching in the rain until he took you in.” She spoke rapidly, and, to Oliver, who had drawn so near that he could distinctly hear the whole, it seemed as if she were repeating some lesson learned by rote; but Mildred had no such thought, and, pressing the bony arm, she asked: “But who am I? What is my name? Who was my father? and am I like my mother?” “That’s what I’ve been trying to make out,” returned the woman, peering closer into her face, and adding, after a minute survey: “Not like her at all. You are more like the Howells; and well you may be, for your poor mother wore her knees almost to the bone praying that you might resemble them.” “Then I am a Howell!—I am a Howell! and Richard was my father! Oh, joy, joy!” and the wild, glad cry went ringing through the ghostly ruin, as Mildred thus gave vent to what she had so long and secretly cherished in her heart.