'Do,' he said; 'I shall like that. The year 1839. Was not that the year a certain little girl was born?'
'The month. Our birth-day is on the 19th.' And the coincidence gave all the foolish delight such facts do under the circumstances.
'Was this long before she died?' asked Wilmet.
'The last day of that August. You never saw her brass in the cloister?'
'No; I never guessed that you were not Mrs. Harewood's son, though I wondered at your being so unlike the rest.'
'She has been kindness itself,' he warmly said. 'My father did well both for himself and me in marrying.'
'Tell me of your own mother,' said Wilmet, looking from the sparkling stones to the initials. 'L.— What was her name?'
'Lucy. Lucy Oglandby. My father was tutor at Oglandby Hall. There was a long attachment, through much opposition; and even when he was made priest-vicar after waiting six years, her father could not consent. After six years more, when her health was failing, he gave a sort of sanction on his death-bed. The rest of the family contrived to get her fortune so tied up that after her death it was of no use to any one till I came of age. She only lived seven years after her marriage, and then the Oglandbys wanted to take possession of me, and I fancy that drove my father into marrying.'
'Was it with them you went to stay?'
'Yes, my father makes a point of it; and they have a turn for patronizing me, if I would turn my back on home.'