“What’s the matter with Rickfort?”

“Nothing.  It’s Uncle George that there is something the matter with.  Rickfort is my house, too, but I hate it; it is so gloomy.  I’m sure,” with a shrug of her shoulders, “Uncle George might have it, and welcome, if only he wouldn’t ask me to live there with him.”

“Uncle George seems to make a poor show,” says Rylton.

“He’s horrid!” says Miss Bolton, without reservation.  “He’s a beast! He hates me, and I hate him.”

“Oh, no!” says Rylton, roused a little.

The child’s face is so earnest.  He feels a little amused, and somewhat surprised.  She seems the last person in the world capable of hatred.

“Yes, I do,” says she, nodding her delightful little head, “and he knows it.  People say a lot about family resemblances, but it seems wicked to think Uncle George is papa’s brother.  For my part,” recklessly, “I don’t believe it.”

“Perhaps he’s a changeling,” says Sir Maurice.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” says Miss Bolton.  “Now, listen to this.”  She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes glistening with wrath.  “I had a terrier, a lovely one, and she had six puppies, and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them—­said they were ill-bred, or something.  And they weren’t, they couldn’t have been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted herself nearly to death after them.  I begged almost on my knees that he would leave her one, and he wouldn’t.”  Her eyes are now full of tears.  “He is a beast!” says she.  This last word seems almost comic, coming from her pretty childish lips.

“Well, but you see,” says Rylton, “some men pride themselves on the pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle——­”

“Oh, if you are going to defend him!” says she, rising with a stiff little air.

“I’m not—­I’m not, indeed,” says Rylton.  “Nothing could excuse his refusing you that one puppy.  But in other ways he is not unkind to you?”

“Yes, he is; he won’t let me go anywhere.”

“He has let you come here.”

“Just because your mother is Lady Rylton!” says the girl, with infinite scorn.  She looks straight at him.  “My uncle is ashamed because we are nobodies—­because his father earned his money by trade.  He hates everyone because of that.  My father,” proudly, “was above it all.”

“I think I should like to have known your father,” says Rylton, admiring the pride in her gray eyes.

“It would have done you good,” returns she thoughtfully.  She pauses, as if still thinking, and then, “As for me, I have not been good at all since I lost him.”

“One can see that,” says Rylton.  “Crime sits rampant in your eyes.”

At this she laughs too; but presently she stops short, and turns to him.

“It is all very well for you to laugh!” says she ruefully.  “You have not to go home next week to live again with Uncle George!”