“Well,” said Arthur.
“Do you think it is well, Arthur?” said Edgar, a little reproachfully. “I hate it, and I hate him, and I hate them all. I thought it was bad enough before.”
“Oh, Edgar, that’s wicked!”
“Well, I can’t help it. Wait until you get bothered, and perhaps you will be wicked too. And, of course, they will hate me, all of them. He has a wife and a lot of daughters, as well as sons.”
“They would be your cousins, would they not?”
“I suppose so,” said Edgar hopelessly.
“Well, do you know, I think it need not be so very bad. You know, Edgar, they would be next best to brothers and sisters. And there might be a little one,” said Arthur, with a soft, tender feeling; as he thought of the little sunny sister, that still lived in his heart. “Why do you hate it so very much?”
“Every reason,” said Edgar bitterly. “And, Arthur, you know I love you, more than any one else in the world; and I wanted to talk to you sometimes.”
“And I am sorry, Edgar,” said Arthur; “only then, you know, you are coming to stay with us at Ashton Grange, when my father and mother come back.”
“Ah, but that is such a very long time; and, you know, I may die before that. Perhaps I shall; and if I were certain of going to heaven, I should like to die.”