“My dear Sylvia!” exclaimed Mary in amazement; for Sylvia, like an India-rubber ball, had bounded sheer over the little arm-chair by which she was standing.
But there her father’s look and uplifted finger kept her still and silent. He wanted to give Kate time to understand what he had said.
“Countess of Caergwent,” she repeated; “that’s not so pretty as if I were Lady Katharine.”
“The sound does not matter much,” said Mary. “You will always be Katharine to those that love you best. And oh!—” Mary stopped short, her eyes full of tears.
Kate looked up at her, astonished. “Are you sorry, Mary?” she asked, a little hurt.
“We are all sorry to lose our little Kate,” said Mr. Wardour.
“Lose me, Papa!” cried Kate, clinging to him, as the children scarcely ever did, for he seldom made many caresses; “Oh no, never! Doesn’t Caergwent Castle belong to me? Then you must all come and live with me there; and you shall have lots of big books, Papa; and we will have a pony-carriage for Mary, and ponies for Sylvia and Charlie and me, and—”
Kate either ran herself down, or saw that the melancholy look on Mr. Wardour’s face rather deepened than lessened, for she stopped short.
“My dear,” he said, “you and I have both other duties.”
“Oh, but if I built a church! I dare say there are people at Caergwent as poor as they are here. Couldn’t we build a church, and you mind them, Papa?”