"You are poetical, my dear little friend."
Evelyn, who had poetry in her nature, and therefore sometimes it broke out in her simple language, coloured and felt half-ashamed.
"It is a favourite walk with my mother," said she, apologetically; "she often spends hours there alone: and so, perhaps, I think it a prettier spot than others may. It does not seem to me to have anything of gloom in it; when I die, I should like to be buried there."
Caroline laughed slightly. "That is a strange wish; but perhaps you have been crossed in love?"
"I!—oh, you are laughing at me!"
"You do not remember Mr. Cameron, your real father, I suppose?"
"No; I believe he died before I was born."
"Cameron is a Scotch name: to what tribe of Camerons do you belong?"
"I don't know," said Evelyn, rather embarrassed; "indeed I know nothing of my father's or mother's family. It is very odd, but I don't think we have any relations. You know when I am of age that I am to take the name of Templeton."
"Ah, the name goes with the fortune; I understand. Dear Evelyn, how rich you will be! I do so wish I were rich!"