“Yes. It is an Anglo-Saxon word, without doubt.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not sure about that. I will try to find out when I go home—if you would like to know.”
“Yes, that I should. I should like to know everything about auntie Ethelwyn. Isn’t it pretty?”
“So pretty that I should like to know something more about Aunt Ethelwyn. What is her other name?”
“Why, Ethelwyn Oldcastle, to be sure. What else could it be?”
“Why, you know, for anything I knew, Judy, it might have been Gladwyn. She might have been your father’s sister.”
“Might she? I never thought of that. Oh, I suppose that is because I never think about my father. And now I do think of it, I wonder why nobody ever mentions him to me, or my mother either. But I often think auntie must be thinking about my mother. Something in her eyes, when they are sadder than usual, seems to remind me of my mother.”
“You remember your mother, then?”
“No, I don’t think I ever saw her. But I’ve answered plenty of questions, haven’t I? I assure you, if you want to get me on to the Catechism, I don’t know a word of it. Come along.”