“It was not that,—it was not that,” returned the father, stiffly. “There was no compulsion used; she was too intellectual,—too independent,—too high-tempered, I tell you, and this other one is like her in everything.” “How do you account for that?” asked Lawrence, who had his own private theory with regard to Mildred’s parentage. “I don’t account for it,” said Mr. Thornton. “I only know she is not at all connected with the Howells. She is the child of some poor wretch who will be claiming her one day. It would be vastly agreeable, wouldn’t it, to see a ragged pauper, or maybe something worse, ringing at our door, and claiming Mrs. Lawrence Thornton for her daughter! Lawrence, that of itself is a sufficient reason why you must not marry Mildred, even if there were no Lilian, who has a prior claim.” “Father,” said Lawrence, “you think to disgust me, but it cannot be done. I like Mildred Howell. I think her the most splendid creature I ever looked upon; and were I a little clearer as to her family, Lilian’s interest might perhaps be jeopardized.” “Thank Heaven, then, that her family is shrouded in mystery!” said Mr. Thornton, while Lawrence sat for a moment intently thinking. Then suddenly springing up and seizing his father’s arm, he asked: “Did you ever know for certain that the child of sister Helen died?” “Know for certain? Yes. What put that idea into your head?” Mr. Thornton asked, and Lawrence replied: “The idea was not really in there, for I know it is not so, though it might have been, I dare say; for, if I remember right, no one save an old nurse was with Helen when she died, while even that miserable Hawley, her husband, was in New Orleans.” “Yes,” returned the father, “Hawley was away, and never, I think, came back to inquire after his wife or child, for he, too, died within the year.” “Then how do you know Mildred is not that child?” persisted Lawrence,—not because he had the most remote belief that she was, but because he wished to see how differently his father would speak of her if there was the slightest possibility of her belonging to the Thornton line. “I know she isn’t,” said the father. “I went to No. 20 —— Street myself, and talked with Esther Bennett, the old woman who took care of Helen, and then of the child until it died. She was a weird, haggish-looking creature, but it was the truth she told. No, you can’t impose that tale on me. This Mildred is _not_ my grandchild.” “For which I fervently thank Heaven,” was Lawrence’s response; and in these words the black-eyed Geraldine, watching by the door, read how dear Mildred Howell was to the young man, and how the finding her to be his sister’s child would be worse to him than death itself. “He shall not win her, though,” she muttered between her glittering teeth, “if I can prevent it, and I think I can. That last idea is a good one, and I’ll jot it down in my book of memory for future use, if need be.”