been no difference in the result, for my darling had left her lodging
and gone no one knew where. This terrible news brought on a relapse,
and for many weeks, I believe, my life hung on a thread. But that
thread was in the hand of God, and I had no fear."

"What is the name, Edie, of the grandmother you have lost?" I asked, in
a low, tremulous voice.

"Willis--but--why do you start so? Now I am quite _sure_ you have been
more severely hurt than you imagine, and that my talking so much is not
good for you."

"No--Edie--no. Go on," I said firmly.

"I have little more to tell," she continued. "Dear Dr McTougall had
attended me in the hospital, and took a fancy to me. When I was well
enough to leave, he took me home to be governess to his children. But
my situation has been an absolute sinecure as yet, for he says I am not
strong enough to work, and won't let me do anything. It was not till
after I had left the hospital that I told my kind friend the mistake
that had been made about my name, and about my lost grandmother. He has
been very kind about that, and assisted me greatly at first in my search
for her. But there are so many--so many people of the name of Willis in
London--old ladies too! We called together on so many that he got tired
of it at last. Of course I wrote to various people at York, and to the
place where we had lived before going there, but nothing came of it, and
now--my hopes have long ago died out--that is to say, almost--but I
still continue to make inquiries."

She paused here for some time, and I did not move or speak, being so
stunned by my discovery that I knew not what to say, and feared to
reveal the truth to Edith too suddenly. Then I knew by the gentle way
in which she moved that she thought I had fallen asleep. I was glad of
this, and remained quietly thinking.

There was no doubt now in my mind that Edie Blythe was this lost
granddaughter of old Mrs Willis, but the name still remained an
insoluble mystery.

"Edie," said I abruptly, "_is_ your name Blythe?"

"Of course it is," she said, in startled surprise, "why should you doubt
it?"

"I _don't_ doubt it," said I, "but I'm sorely puzzled. Why is it not
Willis?"

"Why?" exclaimed Edie, with a little laugh, "because I am the daughter
of Granny Willis's daughter--not of her son. My father's name was
Blythe!"

The simplicity of this explanation, and my gross stupidity in quietly
assuming from the beginning, as a