of his great-nephews and great-nieces, he would certainly give tongue.
And involuntarily he glanced up at the Iseeum; yes--George was still in
the window, with the same pink paper in his hand.

"Where is Robin Hill, Father?"

Robin Hill! Robin Hill, round which all that tragedy had centred! What
did she want to know for?

"In Surrey," he muttered; "not far from Richmond. Why?"

"Is the house there?"

"What house?"

"That they quarrelled about."

"Yes. But what's all that to do with you? We're going home
to-morrow--you'd better be thinking about your frocks."

"Bless you! They're all thought about. A family feud? It's like the
Bible, or Mark Twain--awfully exciting. What did you do in the feud,
Father?"

"Never you mind."

"Oh! But if I'm to keep it up?"

"Who said you were to keep it up?"