"That is far enough ahead," replied Gascoigne with a touch of impatience. "Angel won't be grown up for years, and we may all be dead by that time."
"Now, I call that a really cheerful way of looking at it. One thing is certain, whoever is dead, Angel won't weep. She has no more heart than a paving-stone."
"Why do you say that?" demanded her cousin quickly.
"Simply because it is patent to all the world that she has forgotten her mother already. She never mentions her name——"
"That does not matter—that is no sign," argued her champion; "she thinks more of her mother than the whole Wilkinson family put together. The other morning, when there was a break in the rains and I was out early, I saw a small figure staggering over towards the cemetery, carrying a pot as large as herself. I kept behind, of course, and did not let her see me; it was Angel, taking a plant to her mother's grave. There's no stone up yet."
"No, nor ever will be," supplemented Shafto.
"The cemetery is more than a mile away," continued Gascoigne; "so you will allow that it was rather a big job for a child of her age."
"Oh, yes," admitted her implacable adversary; "Angel's jobs are generally on a large scale."
"She steals off every morning almost before light," resumed her defender.
"What is the ayah about, to allow her to prowl at such an hour?"