should 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