o crush the
flowers.

As Mrs. O'Connor stayed two hours and a half, and as Aunt Theresa
granted my request to be allowed to hear her narrative, I learnt a good
deal of the history of my great-grandmother.

CHAPTER VIII.

A FAMILY HISTORY.

"We are not really connected," Mrs. Buller began. "She is Margery's
great-grandmother, and Margery and I are second cousins. That's all. But
I knew her long ago, before my poor cousin Alice married Captain
Vandaleur. And I have heard the whole story over and over again."

I have heard the story more than once also. I listened with open mouth
to Aunt Theresa at this time, and often afterwards questioned her about
my "ancestors," as I may almost call them.

Years later I used to repeat these histories to girls I was with. When
we were on good terms they were interested to hear, as I was proud to
tell, and would say, "Tell us about your ancestors, Margery." And if we
fell out there was no surer method of annoying me than to slight the
memory of my great-great-grandparents.

I have told their story pretty often. I shall put it down here in my own
way, for Aunt Theresa told a story rather disconnectedly.

The de Vandaleurs (we have dropped the _de_ now) were an old French
family. There was a Duke in it who was killed in the Revolution of '92,
and most of the family emigrated, and were very poor. The title was
restored afterwards, and some of the property. It went to a cousin of
the Duke who was murdered, he having no surviving children; but they say
it went in the wrong line. The cousin who had remained in France, and
always managed to keep the favour of the ruling powers, got the title,
and remade his fortunes; the others remained in England, very poor and
very proud. They would not have accepted any favours from the new royal
family, but still they considered themselves deprived of their rights.
One of these Vandaleur _emigres_ (the one who ought to have been the
Duke) had married his cousin. They suffered great hardships in their
escape, I fancy, and on the birth of their son, shortly after their
arrival in England, the wife died.

There was an old woman, Aunt Theresa said, who used to be her nurse when
she was a child, in London, who had lived, as a girl, in the wretched
lodgings where these poor people were when they came over, and she used
to tell her wonderful stories about them. How, in her delirium (she was
insane for some little time before her son was born), M