She went away quite simply and quietly. He stood looking after her with a compassionate, tender look, that went to my heart. He did not speak for a moment, and then he said, with a sigh, something that had nothing to do with my mystery. “We got marching orders for the Crimea yesterday,” said the dear simple-hearted young fellow, with the tears coming into his honest eyes. “It is very hard upon my poor Milly;” and he broke off with another sigh. If the two had come to me together the next moment, and disclosed a plan to turn us out of our estate or pull the house down over our heads, I could have hugged them in my arms all the same. God bless the dear children! whatever they had to tell, there was but one thing in their thoughts, and that was the parting that was coming. If I had been the hardest heart in the world, that spontaneous confidence must have melted me. As it was, I could hardly help crying over them in their anguish and happiness. People are happy that have such anguishes. I could hardly help exclaiming out aloud, “I’ll take care of her!” and yet dear! to think of human short-sightedness! Had not I come all this way to find them out? She came back again a minute after, with some old books in her arms. “Have you told Miss Mortimer, Harry?” she asked, pausing with a little surprise to hear no conversation going on between us, and to see him leaning against the mantelshelf just as she had left him, with his hand over his eyes. Then she gave him a quick, affectionate, indignant glance--I might say petulant--and came up in her energetic way to the table, where she put down the books. “_I_ will tell you, Miss Mortimer,” said the brave little woman. “We do not know very much ourselves, but perhaps when you hear our story you can make it plain better than we can. We found it out only by chance.” “My dear,” said I, “do not call me Miss Mortimer; my eldest sister is Miss Mortimer. I am called Miss Milly; Millicent Mortimer is my name.” Here the young man broke in suddenly. “_Her_ name was Millicent Mortimer too,” he cried. “Milly!--that is her name--I beg your pardon, Miss Mortimer; I think there is no name in the world equal to it. She’s Milly, named so at her father’s desire. Tell me, is she nearly related to you?” I was so astonished I rose up to my feet and stared at them both. To be sure, I had heard him call her Milly; but my thoughts had been so entirely drawn astray by Mr. Luigi, that I never thought of anything else. I stood perfectly thunderstruck, staring at them. “What are you telling me?” I cried. Really my mind was not in a condition to take in anything that might be said to me. She put the old books towards me one by one. I opened them, not knowing what I did. “Sarah Mortimer, the Park, 1810.” Heaven bless us! Sarah’s hand, no doubt about it; but who in the world was _she_?