"Grace means," it was Amy who acted the peacemaker this time, "that it's strange about the name."
"And, of course, it is," Betty added gravely. "Sergeant Mullins should by all rights be Sergeant Sanderson."
"And Mrs. Sanderson couldn't have known about his being called Mullins," Grace broke in eagerly, "because we've spoken to her of Sergeant Mullins more than once, and she never acted as though more than casually interested."
"Well, but I suppose that's easily enough explained," said Mollie, who was in no mood for details—the actual occurrences being wonderful enough in themselves to occupy her attention for some time to come. "People often enough change their last names for some reason or other."
"Then you mean," said Grace, "that William Mullins is really William Sanderson?"
"A fair assumption," returned Mollie dryly. "Unless Mrs. Sanderson's name is Mullins."
"Perhaps the best way," suggested Betty peaceably, "would be to wait and let Mrs. Sanderson tell us about it."
"Wait—" Grace was beginning, when a gentle tap sounded on the door and Betty flew to open it.
On the threshold stood Mrs. Sanderson, her eyes red with weeping, yet her whole face so transformed with joy that the girls would hardly have recognized her as the Mrs. Sanderson of that morning. Instinctively they glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the tall figure of Sergeant Mullins looming in the background, but he was nowhere to be seen.
"He's—he's gone," said the little old lady tremulously, seeming to interpret their glances, at the same time coming timidly into the room. "He told me to tell you," her face lighted up still more with that wonderful inward joy, "that he would have stayed and thanked you young ladies, but he'd made sort of an idiot of himself—so he said—an' would be around later, instead."