"Why, I didn't find out. Papa talks to me sometimes about our relatives;
you talk as if it were a crime for people not to come here when they
have their own houses and things to attend to. You might just as well
ask why we always stay at home."

"Oh! but that's different: Riversdale is such a jolly place. Why, I
wouldn't live anywhere else for anything, would you, Eddie?"

"I don't know; I think it would be wise to see other places before
deciding. I should like to see a great city--London for instance."

"I wonder if Agnes is coming from London?" Bertie cried; "if so, she can
tell us all about it."

"But I'd like to see for myself, to travel everywhere, visit all the
famous places in the world--Italy, Greece, Egypt--see pictures, statues,
beautiful churches."

"I think I'd prefer to stay at home: those places are such a long way
off. I dare say I should be tired before I got there; and I don't care
for pictures much, except of dogs and horses. I'd just like to stay here
always, hunt and shoot and fish when I grow up, and play cricket and
football, and just enjoy myself all the time," Bertie said soberly.

"That's because you're ignorant, Bertie, and have no taste or ambition,"
Eddie replied. "You know what Doctor Mayson says: 'Travel improves the
mind, and enlarges the understanding.'"

"Yes, but that's only in a copy-book!" Bertie exclaimed triumphantly.
"Besides, papa is the cleverest man in the world, and he's happy enough
here. Oh! the carriage at last. Come and welcome our new cousin;" and in
a moment Bertie had vaulted over the gate and shouted to the coachman to
stop, while Eddie followed in a more orthodox fashion, and both boys
stood bowing, with their caps in their hands, to a little girl dressed
in black, with a small pale face, and a quantity of light hair pushed
back from her forehead. She clung to Mrs. Mittens nervously with one
hand, while she extended the other first to Bertie, then to Eddie and
said, "Thank you, cousins," for their welcome in the sweetest, saddest
voice in the world. Then the carriage drove on before Bertie had quite
recovered his astonishment at the fact that the little girl seemed no
more than a baby, yet wore blue glasses, and spoke with the voice of a
grown-up person. He had meant to spring into the carriage, give her a
hearty kiss and a noisy greeting, and go on to the house with her; but
such familiarities were entirely out of the question with the grave
little lady in bla