"Dear child, how glad I am to know you!" said her aunt, taking Angel's face between her hands and gazing once more into a pair of sweet familiar eyes. "I hope we shall often see you. Now my mother never told me of your existence. She is a strange woman—but I believe she is pleased with you."
"I did not know that I had a grandmother—or an aunt—until to-day," said the child. "I am so astonished—the girls will be so surprised when I tell them I have a grannie and an aunt all this time in London. I always thought—grandmothers—were different."
"Your grandmother is different to most people," granted her aunt.
"And why has she never asked me here—nor written to me—why does she stare at me as if there were something odd about me? Is there anything odd about me, Aunt Eva."
"No indeed, my dear."
"There must be some reason—do please tell me—why I never heard of you till to-day. I am twelve years old."
"Your grandmother was very much vexed when your father married," explained Miss Gascoigne with obvious reluctance.
"Why?" came the question, like a blow.
"Oh, because he was a mere boy, only twenty-two, and she did not like your mother. My dear, you must never speak of her here," she continued, lowering her voice till it became a whisper.
"Do you suppose that I shall ever come to a house where I may not speak of my mother?" blazed Angel.