Mr. Luigi turned towards me for a moment, with a face melted out of all reserve, into such affectionateness and emotion as I scarcely ever saw on a man’s face. When she named her sister’s age, he said, “Ah!” with a tone as if her words went to his heart. But that was all. He shook his head. He said, “No more, no more,” and went slowly but steadily away. It was no mistake. What she said conveyed no information to him. He knew _that_ Sarah’s age and all about her, better than her sister did, or I was mistaken. What he said, and still more what he looked, brought a strong sudden impression to my mind. I don’t know yet how I can be right--if I am right it is the strangest thing in the world; but I know it darted into my head that morning when Luigi’s face melted out so strongly, and that cry which explained nothing came from his heart. In the meantime, however, poor Aunt Milly sat wringing her hands and more troubled than ever, repeating to herself bits of the conversation which had just passed, and bits of other conversations which we knew nothing about. Harry and I, a little uncomfortable, still tried to occupy ourselves so that we should not hear anything she did not want us to hear; but we did not wish to leave her either. At last Harry went out altogether and left her alone with me, and by degrees she calmed down. I do not wonder she was painfully excited. There could be little doubt some strange, unnatural secret was concealed in her house. “But you heard him say _reject_,” said Aunt Milly,--“if she rejected him--do you feel quite sure he understood my last question? Not knowing a language very well makes a wonderful difference; and what if he supposed my sister a _young_ woman, Milly? When I began to be troubled about this business, I couldn’t but think that it was some old lover Sarah was afraid of meeting, forgetting the lapse of time. She was a great beauty once, you know. How do you suppose, now, an old woman could _reject_ a young man?” “But there are other meanings of the word than as it is between young women and young men,” said I; “he might mean _disown_.” “He might mean _disown_,” repeated Aunt Milly slowly,--“_disown_; but, dear, dear child,” she cried, immediately throwing off her first puzzled hypothesis, and falling back at once into the real subject of her trouble, “what can he be to Sarah that she could _disown_ him? Before you can disown a person he must belong to you. How could Mr. Luigi belong to my sister? but, to be sure, it is folly to put such questions to you that know nothing about it. Milly, dear, I’ll have to go home.” “I am very, very sorry you are going home disappointed,” said I.