"And who is Horace Bright?" I asked, assuming as grave an air as possible.
"Oh! Horace is nobody--only the son of one of our neighbours. There, don't you see the old stone house that stands among the apple and cherry trees, on the banks of the river, just here in a line with this barn?"
"Quite plainly; and a very pretty place it is. We were admiring it as we drove up the road."
"Well, that is Horace Bright's father's; and one of the best farms in the neighbourhood. But you mustn't mind what he says, grandmother always tells me; boys love to talk grandly, and all the folks about here feel for us, though most of them are afraid of 'Squire Van Tassel, too."
"I place no reliance at all on Horace's talk--not I. It is just as your grandmother tells you; boys are fond of making a parade, and often utter things they don't mean."
"Well, I don't think that is Horace's way, in the least; though I wouldn't have you suppose I ever think, the least in the world, about what Horace says concerning my never being left to want. My own aunts will take care of that."
"And should they fail you, my dear," cried Marble, with strong feeling, "your own uncle would step into their places, without waiting to have his memory jogged."
Again Kitty looked surprised, a very little startled, and again she pressed to my side.
"I have no uncle," she answered, timidly. "Father never had a brother, and grandmother's son is dead."
"No, Kitty," I said, giving a look at Marble to keep him quiet; "in the last you are mistaken. This is the good news of which we spoke. Your grandmother's son is not dead, but living, and in good health. He is found, acknowledged, has passed the afternoon with your grandmother, has money more than enough to satisfy even the unjust demand of the miserly Van Tassel, and will be a father to you."