“Visitors of my son’s? That means, I suppose,” said Mrs Underwood, with a little gasp, yet a heroic effort, “Visitors to me?” “I am glad you think so, Mary. It is no concern of mine,” said Miss Anna, turning pointedly away. And then politeness compelled Mrs Underwood to offer civilities she had very little mind to. “Won’t you sit down?” she said. “Geoff, you will perhaps introduce me to your friends.” She sighed; there was something half-ludicrous in the pathos of her tone. “I hope we may be friends hereafter,” said Geoffrey; “but at present there is something to be settled which is more than friendship. Mother, you remember your cousin, Leonard Crosthwaite, and his sudden visit here a fortnight ago?” “Leonard Crosthwaite?” she said the name trembling, and turned involuntarily with a frightened look to where her sister sat. “He means,” said Miss Anna, without turning her head, “the impostor, or madman, who assumed the name of--our relation who died twenty years ago.” “Mother, listen,” said Geoffrey. “It is a terrible story, so far as I can make it out. He went from you, to die: and these are his daughters.” Mrs Underwood turned from one to another as her son spoke, now reading his face, now Miss Anna’s, now throwing an anxious glance at the sisters who stood together in the centre of the room, not knowing what new turn their affairs might be about to take. At this an exclamation burst from all three at once. The girls said, “No, no!” while Mrs Underwood cried out, “Leonard’s daughters!” “No, no, no, no!” the others said. “So far as I can see,” repeated the young man, “he is dead, and cannot tell us how it stands. These are the young ladies whom I found at the hotel to which I went in search of him--his hotel, the address he gave you. And their father came out on a wintry afternoon a fortnight ago, a Tuesday, to visit friends--old friends of whom he told them nothing. He went home drenched--you remember how it rained, mother?--and took to his bed. Now that he is dead, they found our address among his papers. This is the story, and what can you want more? It seems to me that it is clear enough!” “But,” said Grace, “there is one great mistake you make. Our name, it is not Crosthwaite--oh, nothing like it; we never heard that name before. Papa was not a man to go by a false name. Oh, no, no; he was true in everything. There must still be some mistake.” Miss Anna, who had turned her chair away, turned round again at this. “I told you,” she said; “this young fellow wants to prove you to be the daughters of an impostor or a madman. Of course, your father was not a man to go by a false name. Nobody would do that who was, as you say, a respectable person, a man thought well of in his own place. You know better than to think so. Of course: that is exactly what I said.”