NELL jumped up in great consternation at this unexpected emotion on the part of her hostess.
“Oh, please, I am so sorry; but I think there is a mistake. My mother’s name couldn’t have been Gwynne, because her father’s name was Humphrey, Doss Umpey he always called himself.”
“Of course, of course, I knew I couldn’t be mistaken,” cried Mrs. Nichols, with a gurgling gasp which threatened to choke her. “But your mother’s name was Gwynne, my dear, though you might not have known it, and Doss Umpey was not her father at all, but only her mother’s second husband.”
“Are you sure, quite sure of that?” asked Nell, eagerly, going rather white, and standing with one hand clutching at the mantelpiece, as if she were afraid of falling.
“Quite sure, and I ought to know if any one did, seeing that I was your mother’s greatest friend until she married the preacher, and went away with him to her new home. She dropped her old friends a bit then—felt she didn’t want any one but her husband, I expect, which is natural, but not always wise.” And Mrs. Nichols heaved a heavy sigh.
“Tell me about my mother, please,” said Nell, her colour coming and going, while she tried to realize what it would mean to her not to have Doss Umpey for her grandfather.
“Your mother was a sweet, pretty creature, my dear, much prettier than you, for she was plumper, and had more colour; but you’ve got her eyes and her voice, and that brown hat and coat do suit you amazingly well. Doss Umpey drove the stage then between George Creek and Mutley town, and his wife—that was your grandmother—kept a store at Mutley with Nell to help her.”
“Was mother called Nell too? Father spoke of her always as Eleanor,” said Nell, doubtfully.
“I know he did, and I expect your husband, when you have one, will call you Eleanor too, for it is a fine, stately name, well suited for grown-up folks; but it isn’t fitted for children, so I suppose that is why they don’t get called by it.”
“Was granfer kind to my mother?” asked Nell.