“Are you Aunt Marion Hazel?” the rosy lips asked.
“My name is Marion Hazel,” I said coldly, while the boys drew round, and Cherry seemed spellbound. “But there must be some mistake. I have no niece.”
She turned slowly from me to my husband and back again.
“My name is Mary,” she said, “but every one calls me 'Maimie.’ I am Maimie Browne,—and my mother married Mr. Churton Hazel.”
“Churton! Is it possible?” said my husband. We had heard for years little or nothing of his only brother. Churton had spent a somewhat wild youth, and had gone out to Canada long before.
“Mr. Churton Hazel is my stepfather,” the girl said, standing still with clasped hands. “And after mother’s death he was so good to me. He often talked of 'Aunt Marion’ and 'Uncle Robert,’ and he has sent me to you. He said he would write and explain. He said you would give me a home—such a happy English home.”
“And so we will,” burst from impulsive Jack. “Mother, so we will.”
But I only looked at my husband, and said, “It seems a strange story.”
“Churton has never written,” said my husband. “It is nearly six years since his last letter to me.”
“But Maimie is our cousin, mother,” put in Cherry.