“Minnie,” she repeated. “That’s pretty. I love you, Minnie Hawley,” and putting up her waxen hand, she brushed the tears from Mildred’s eyes, asking again why she cried. At first Mildred thought to correct her with regard to her name. Then, thinking it was just as well to be Minnie as anything else, she let it pass, for without any tangible reason save that it was a sudden fancy, she had determined that if the handsome stranger were Richard Howell, he should not know from her that she was the foundling left at his father’s door. She had always shrank from hearing the subject discussed, and it seemed more distasteful to her now than ever; so on the whole she was glad Edith had misunderstood her, for _Milly_ might have led to some inquiries on the part of Richard, if it were he, inasmuch as his mother and sister had borne that rather unusual name; so, instead of replying directly to the child, she said, “Let us go over by the window where the cool breeze comes in,” and gathering up her playthings, Edith went with her to the sofa, and climbing into her lap asked, “Where’s your ma, Minnie?” “She’s dead,” was the reply. “And is your pa dead, too?” Ere Mildred could answer this a voice from the hall called out: “Edith! Edith! where are you?” “Here, pa, here with Minnie. Come and see her,” and bounding across the floor, the active child seized her father’s hand and pulled him into Mildred’s room. “Excuse me, Miss Hawley,” he said. “Edith is very sociable; and I am afraid you find her troublesome.” “Not in the least. I am fond of children,” returned Mildred, taking the little girl again upon her lap, while Mr. Howell sat down by the other window. He was a very handsome man, and at first appearance seemed to be scarcely thirty. A closer observation, however, showed that he was several years older, for his rich brown hair was slightly tinged with gray, and there were the marks of time or sorrow about his eyes and forehead. In manner he was uncommonly prepossessing, and a few minutes sufficed to put Mildred entirely at her ease, with one who had evidently been accustomed to the society of high-bred, cultivated people. “Edith tells me you come from England,” she said at last, by way of ascertaining whether he really were Richard Howell or not. “Yes,” he replied, “I have lived in England for several years, though I am a native American and born in Boston. When six years old, however, my father removed to Mayfield, where he is living now.” “What for you jump?” asked Edith, as Mildred started involuntarily when her suspicions were thus confirmed. Mr. Howell’s eyes seemed to ask the same question, and bowing her face over the curly head of the child, so as to conceal her tears, Mildred answered: “I have been in Mayfield several times, and know an old gentleman whose son went off many years ago, and has never been heard of since.” “What makes you ty?” persisted Edith, who felt the drops upon her hair.