She went on:  “I always had a very special love for this old Aunt Esther, which I could hardly account for.  I am to have the little red book when my mother dies; and”—­she hesitated a moment—­“and I named my first baby for her, Esther Wynn.  The baby only lived to be a few weeks old, and I often think, as I look at her little grave-stone, of the other one, so many thousand miles away, alone in a strange land, bearing the same name.”

On my way home I stopped for a few days’ visit at Uncle Jo’s.  Late one night, sitting in my old place at his feet in the library, I told him this sequel to the romance of the letters.

“Oh, childie, how could you help showing that you knew about her?” said he.  “You must have betrayed it.”

“No, I am sure I did not,” I said.  “I never spoke about it after that day, and she was too absorbed herself in the reminiscences to observe my excitement.”

“What was your friend’s name?” said Uncle Jo.

I told him.  He sprang from his chair, and walked rapidly away to the end of the library; presently he came back, and standing before me, said,—­

“Nell!  Nell! your friend’s mother is the woman of whom I once spoke to you!  I might have known that the subtle kinship I felt between Esther Wynn and her was no chance resemblance.  I never heard of the name ‘Wynn,’ however.  But you said she was only a half-sister; that accounts for it.  I might have known!  I might have known!” he exclaimed, more to himself than to me, and buried his face in his hands I stole away quietly and left him; but I heard him saying under his breath, “Her aunt!  I might have known!”