“We have been to the place where papa was when he caught his cold--the same place; and in the same way.” Here again little Milly, shy and acquiescent as she was, signalled her disapproval. “Don’t,” she seemed to say, with those soft lips which never before had expressed anything but concurrence. The spectator was much more interested, perversely, than if the sisters had been as usual in perfect accord. “Then you have found your relations?” he said. “We don’t know if they are relations. Yes, I think so; we had the strangest reception. Doctor, I don’t know how to tell you. We are sure there is something underneath--an inheritance, of which papa has been cheated, which we, or rather our Lenny, is the right heir of. I suppose such things are quite common in England?” cried Grace, full of excitement. “You will be able to tell us what people do?” “An inheritance!” the doctor said, amazed. And then he laughed a little, and shook his head. “No, my dear child, I don’t think such things are at all common in England. They happen in novels, but not anywhere else, so far as I know.” This disconcerted the girls for a moment. For to be told that your own story is like a novel is always disagreeable, and throws an air of contempt upon the sternest facts. “It does not matter,” said Grace shortly, “however much it may be like a novel, it is nevertheless true. We found the address in papa’s letter case--nothing but the address--and we felt sure that was where he had gone, to see old friends, he said. We went there this afternoon thinking we too, perhaps, might find friends, or at least hear something about that last visit. We were received by the strangest, beautiful old lady--oh, she was like a novel if you please!--who would have nothing to say to us. But the others,” said Grace, getting somewhat confused, “acknowledged that there was some one who had gone to see them that day, Tuesday, and had left in the rain--who was a relation--who was--or, at least, they said, pretended to be. Only it was quite a different name.” Dr Brewer held up his hands to stop this broken flood of disclosure. “Stop a little, and take me with you,” he said. “A beautiful old lady--and the others who said--but it was quite a different name. Now, tell me what all this means.” Then they both began to talk together explaining to him. “There was one lady, and her son, who were very kind,” Milly said. “She told us it was an impostor or a madman who had come, and said he was--somebody,” cried Grace; “but that _that_ person had died long ago; and that our father was far more respectable; and that we could raise a great law-suit if we liked; but the others said if we were _his_ daughters, it would make a great difference--oh, a very great difference to them.” “But they were very kind, and kissed us, and promised to come and see us,” cried Milly, breathless, coming in again at the end.