r pardon," I stammered. "I am afraid there is some mistake.
I came here in answer to a letter written by a Francis Morley, who
is--well, I suppose he is a distant relative of mine."

She stepped forward and closed the door by which I had entered. Then she
turned and faced me.

"You are an American," she said.

"Yes, I am an American. I--"

She interrupted me.

"Do you--do you come from--from Bayport, Massachusetts?" she faltered.

I stared at her. "Why, yes," I admitted. "I do come from Bayport. How in
the world did you--"

"Was the letter you speak of addressed to Captain Barnabas Cahoon?"

"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.

CHAPTER VII

In Which a Dream Becomes a Reality

I said nothing immediately. I could not. It was "Little Frank" who
resumed the conversation. "Who are you?" she asked.

"Who--I beg your pardon? I am rather upset, I'm afraid. I didn't
expect--that is, I expected.... Well, I didn't expect THIS! What was it
you asked me?"

"I asked you who you were."

"My name is Knowles--Kent Knowles. I am Captain Cahoon's grand-nephew."

"His grand-nephew. Then--Did Captain Cahoon send you to me?"

"Send me! I beg your pardon once more. No.... No. Captain Cahoon is
dead. He has been dead nearly ten years. No one sent me."

"Then why did you come? You have my letter; you