“So I have been told,” said the young man with a gravity and reverence that impressed Kate, for she lowered her own voice and said,—
“It is because I want to know what really happened that I talk to you.”
“But I cannot tell you more than you know,” said Walter, “how your father and your uncle were found drowned together. No one was there—so no one can know how it was.”
“That was after my grandfather died?” said Kate, as if pondering.
“Yes,—I suppose so.”
Kate was silent for a minute,—then she said, as if slightly disappointed, “Of course, if I come to think of it, you are not likely to be able to tell me anything about it. Perhaps I ought not to have asked you. Shall we come up to the house?”
Walter assented, he could not fathom what was passing in her mind; but her quick changes of mood interested him.
He paid rather a stiff visit at Kingsworth. Mrs Kingsworth had an unreadiness of manner that was embarrassing. In truth her mind was never with the matter in hand, and just now she was full of speculation as to what would have been her feelings if this fine young man had been her son, and his disinheritance the sacrifice she contemplated. Kate, too, was silent, and Emberance had to bear the burden of the conversation, till Walter took his leave, saying that he hoped circumstances might again bring him into the neighbourhood, and that the two branches of the family might not again be so entirely separated.
“Mamma,” said Kate, when he was gone, “we have some girl-cousins too at Silthorpe. Couldn’t we ask them to stay here some time?”
“It is a great stretch to call them cousins, Katie,” said Mrs Kingsworth. “I don’t see quite how we could do so.”