“You have a brother, have you not?” inquired Dorothy.

“I have,” returned Alizon, slightly colouring; “but I see little of him, for he lives near my grandmother, in Pendle Forest, and always avoids me in his rare visits here.  You will think it strange when I tell you I have never beheld my grandmother Demdike.”

“I am glad to hear it,” exclaimed Dorothy.

“I have never even been to Pendle,” pursued Alizon, “though Jennet and my mother go there frequently.  At one time I much wished to see my aged relative, and pressed my mother to take me with her; but she refused, and now I have no desire to go.”

“Strange!” exclaimed Dorothy.  “Every thing you tell me strengthens the idea I conceived, the moment I saw you, and which my brother also entertained, that you are not the daughter of Elizabeth Device.”

“Did your brother think this?” cried Alizon, eagerly.  But she immediately cast down her eyes.

“He did,” replied Dorothy, not noticing her confusion. “’It is impossible,’ he said, ’that that lovely girl can be sprung from’—­but I will not wound you by adding the rest.”

“I cannot disown my kindred,” said Alizon.  “Still, I must confess that some notions of the sort have crossed me, arising, probably, from my mother’s extraordinary treatment, and from many other circumstances, which, though trifling in themselves, were not without weight in leading me to the conclusion.  Hitherto I have treated it only as a passing fancy, but if you and Master Richard Assheton”—­and her voice slightly faltered as she pronounced the name—­“think so, it may warrant me in more seriously considering the matter.”

“Do consider it most seriously, dear Alizon,” cried Dorothy.  “I have made up my mind, and Richard has made up his mind, too, that you are not Mother Demdike’s grand-daughter, nor Elizabeth Device’s daughter, nor Jennet’s sister—­nor any relation of theirs.  We are sure of it, and we will have you of our mind.”

The fair and animated speaker could not help noticing the blushes that mantled Alizon’s cheeks as she spoke, but she attributed them to other than the true cause.  Nor did she mend the matter as she proceeded.

“I am sure you are well born, Alizon,” she said, “and so it will be found in the end.  And Richard thinks so, too, for he said so to me; and Richard is my oracle, Alizon.”

In spite of herself Alizon’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; but she speedily checked the emotion.

“I must not indulge the dream,” she said, with a sigh.

“Why not?” cried Dorothy.  “I will have strict inquiries made as to your history.”

“I cannot consent to it,” replied Alizon.  “I cannot leave one who, if she be not my parent, has stood to me in that relation.  Neither can I have her brought into trouble on my account.  What will she think of me, if she learns I have indulged such a notion?  She will say, and with truth, that I am the most ungrateful of human beings, as well as the most unnatural of children.  No, dear young lady, it must not be.  These fancies are brilliant, but fallacious, and, like bubbles, burst as soon as formed.”