“Edith Howell. What is yours?” and Edith looked inquiringly at Mildred, who started suddenly, repeating:
“Edith Howell! Edith Howell! and did your father come in the stage this morning?”
“Yes,” returned the child. “He went off in it before I was up, and brought me Old Mother Hubbard. Don’t you want to see her?” and Edith ran to her own room, while Mildred clasped her hands to her head, which seemed almost bursting with the conviction which the name of Edith Howell had forced upon her.
She knew now where she had seen a face like that of her stage companion. She had seen it in the pleasant drawing-room at Beechwood, and the eyes which had so puzzled her that morning had many and many a time looked down upon her from the portrait of Richard Howell.
“’Tis he, ’tis he,” she whispered. “But why is he here instead of going to his father?”
Then, as she remembered having heard how Richard Howell had cared for her, shielding her from the Judge’s wrath, and how once she had dared to hope that she might be his child, she buried her face in the pillow and wept aloud, for the world seemed so dark,—so dreary.
“What you tie for, pretty lady?” asked little Edith, returning to her side, laden with dolls and toys, and Old Mother Hubbard, which last Mildred did not fully appreciate. “What is your name?” Edith said again, as, mounting upon the bed, she prepared to display her treasures.
“Milly Hawley;” and Mildred’s voice trembled so that the child very easily mistook the word for Minnie.
“Minnie,” she repeated. “That’s pretty. I love you, Minnie Hawley,” and putting up her waxen hand, she brushed the tears from Mildred’s eyes, asking again why she cried.
At first Mildred thought to correct her with regard to her name. Then, thinking it was just as well to be Minnie as anything else, she let it pass, for without any tangible reason save that it was a sudden fancy, she had determined that if the handsome stranger were Richard Howell, he should not know from her that she was the foundling left at his father’s door. She had always shrank from hearing the subject discussed, and it seemed more distasteful to her now than ever; so on the whole she was glad Edith had misunderstood her, for Milly might have led to some inquiries on the part of Richard, if it were he, inasmuch as his mother and sister had borne that rather unusual name; so, instead of replying directly to the child, she said, “Let us go over by the window where the cool breeze comes in,” and gathering up her playthings, Edith went with her to the sofa, and climbing into her lap asked, “Where’s your ma, Minnie?”