hould tell you. Aggie is my granddaughter, but she is the
granddaughter, too, of Squire Linthorne up at the Hall."

"Bless me!" Mrs. Walsham ejaculated, too astonished for any further
expression of her feelings.

"Yes, ma'am, she is the daughter of the squire's son Herbert, who
married my daughter Cissie."

"Dear me, dear me," Mrs. Walsham said, "what an extraordinary thing! Of
course I remember Herbert Linthorne, a handsome, pleasant young fellow.
He was on bad terms, as everyone heard, eight years ago, with his
father, because he married somebody beneath--I mean somebody of whom
the squire did not approve. A year afterwards, we heard that he was
dead, and there was a report that his wife was dead, too, but that was
only a rumour. The squire went away just at the time, and did not come
back for months afterwards, and after that he was altogether changed.
Before, he had been one of the most popular men in this part of the
country, but now he shut himself up, gave up all his acquaintances, and
never went outside the park gates except to come down to church. I
remember it gave us quite a shock when we saw him for the first
time--he seemed to have grown an old man all at once. Everyone said
that the death of his son had broken his heart.

"And Aggie is his granddaughter! Well, well, you have astonished me.
But why did you not tell me before?"

"There were a good many reasons, ma'am. I thought, in the first place,
you might refuse me, if you knew, for it might do you harm. The squire
is a vindictive man, and he is landlord of your house; and if he came
to know that you had knowingly taken in his granddaughter, there was no
saying how he might have viewed it. Then, if you had known it, you
might have thought you ought to keep her in, and not let her run about
the country with your son; and altogether, it would not have been so
comfortable for you or her. I chose to put her at Sidmouth because I
wanted to come here often, to hear how the squire was going on; for if
he had been taken ill I should have told him sooner than I intended."

"But why did you not tell him before?" Mrs. Walsham asked.

"Just selfishness, ma'am. I could not bring myself to run the risk of
having to give her up. She was mine as much as his, and was a hundred
times more to me than she could be to him. I took her a baby from her
dead mother's arms. I fed her and nursed her, taught her her first
words and her first prayer. Why should I offer to give