eard that I lived with Mrs. Burke, and that she was
my aunt; but if my mother's brother chose to marry a woman of no family
because she had money,"--contemptuously, "that might disgrace _him_, but
would not make her kin to _us_. You saw her, you--" lifting distressed
eyes to his--"you thought her dreadful, didn't you?"

"I have only had one thought about her. That she was good to you in your
trouble, and that but for her I should never have met you."

"That is like you," says she gratefully, yet impatiently. "But it isn't
enough. I want you to understand that she is quite unlike my own _real_
people--my father, who was like a prince," throwing up her head, "and my
uncle, his brother."

"You have an uncle, then?" with some surprise.

"Oh no, _had_," sadly.

"He is dead then?"

"Yes. I suppose so. You are wondering," says she quickly, "that I have
never spoken to you of him or my father before. But I _could_ not. The
thought that your family objected to me, despised me, seemed to compel
me to silence. And you--you asked me very little."

"How could I, Barbara? Any attempt I made was repulsed. I thought it
kinder to----"

"Yes--I was wrong. I see it now. But I couldn't bear to explain myself.
I told you what I could about my father, and that seemed to me
sufficient. Your people's determination to regard me as impossible tied
my tongue."

"I don't believe it was that," says he laughing. "I believe we were so
happy that we didn't care to discuss anything but each other. Delightful
subjects full of infinite variety! We have sat so lightly to the world
all these years, that if my father's letter had not come this morning I
honestly think we should never have thought about him again."

This is scarcely true, but he is bent on giving her mind a happier turn
if possible.

"What's the good of talking to me like that, Freddy," says she
reproachfully. "You know one never forgets anything of that sort. A
slight I mean; and from one's own family. You are always thinking of it;
you know you are."

"Well, not always, my dear, certainly--" says Mr. Monkton temporizing.
"And if even I _do_ give way to retrospection, it is to feel indignant
with both my parents."

"Yes; and I don't want you to feel like that. It must be dreadful, and
it is my fault. When I think how I felt towards my dear old dad, and my
uncle--I----"

"Well, never mind that. I've got you, and without meaning any gross
flattery, I consider you worth a do