Then Mildred looked, but started quickly when she saw Richard Howell, every feature convulsed with the emotions he could not express, and his arms stretched imploringly toward her, as if beseeching her to come to their embrace. “_My daughter, my daughter!_” he said, at last, and though it was but a whisper it reached the ear of Mildred, and with a scream of unutterable joy she went forward to an embrace such as she had never known before. Oh, it was strange to see that strong man weep as he did over his beautiful daughter, but tears did him good, and he wept on until the fountain was dried up, murmuring, “My Mildred,—my darling,—my first-born,—my baby, Hetty’s and mine. The Lord be praised who brought me to see your face when I believed you dead!” and all the while he said this he was smoothing her shiny hair, looking into her eyes, and kissing her girlish face, so much like his own as it used to be, save that it was softer and more feminine. Wonderingly Oliver looked at them, seeking in vain for a clew with which to unravel the mystery, but when Mildred, remembering him, at last said: “Oliver, this is Richard Howell,” he needed nothing more to tell him that he had witnessed the meeting between a father and his child. To Mildred the truth came suddenly with the words, “My daughter.” Like a flash of light it broke on her,—the secret marriage with Hetty Kirby,—her strong resemblance to the Howells, and all the circumstances connected with her first arrival at Beechwood. There could be no mistake, and with a cry of joy she sprang to meet her father as we have described. “I heard what he told you,” Richard said at last, motioning to Oliver. “I heard him call you Mildred, and from your conversation knew you were the child once left at my father’s door. You were my darling baby then; you are my beautiful Mildred now,” and he hugged her closer in his arms. Very willingly Mildred suffered her fair head to rest upon his shoulder, for it gave to her a feeling of security she had never before experienced, for never before had she known what it was to feel a father’s heart throbbing in unison with her own. Suddenly a new thought occurred to her, and starting up, she exclaimed: “Edith, father, Edith!” “I’me tomein’, with lots of fowers,” answered a childish voice, and Oliver heard the patter of little feet in the hall. In a moment she was with them, her curls blown over her face, and her white apron full of the flowers she had gathered for Minnie, “’cause she was so sick.” “Precious little sister,” and Mildred’s arms closed convulsively around the wondering child, whose flowers were scattered over the carpet, and who thought more of gathering them up than of paying very close attention to what her father told her of Minnie’s being _Mildred_, her sister, who they thought was dead. At last Edith began to understand, and rubbing her fat, round cheek against Mildred’s, she said: