“Yes.”
“Then—then there isn't any mistake. I wrote it.”
I imagine that my mouth opened as wide as the maid's had done.
“You!” I exclaimed. “Why—why—it was written by Francis Morley—Francis Strickland Morley.”
“I am Frances Strickland Morley.”
I heard this, of course, but I did not comprehend it. I had been working along the lines of a fixed idea. Now that idea had been knocked into a cocked hat, and my intellect had been knocked with it.
“Why—why, no,” I repeated, stupidly. “Francis Morley is the son of Strickland Morley.”
“There was no son,” impatiently. “I am Frances Morley, I tell you. I am Strickland Morley's daughter. I wrote that letter.”
I sat down upon the nearest of the two chairs. I was obliged to sit. I could not stand and face the fact which, at least, even my benumbed brain was beginning to comprehend. The mistake was a simple one, merely the difference between an “i” and an “e” in a name, that was all. And yet that mistake—that slight difference between “Francis” and “Frances”—explained the amazing difference between the Little Frank of Hephzibah's fancy and the reality before me.
The real Little Frank was a girl.