“Stranger even than you think it,” he replied. “Do you know I heard only to-day that General Osbert’s eldest—or elder, he has only two—son is dead, in consequence of a fall from his horse? He died on the 13th, just the day Jerry was so frightened at Silverthorns. And it was when my old uncle died that I, as a child, was so startled there.”
“You won’t tell Jerry? It would only deepen the impression.”
“Of course not. Besides, there are so many other ways of accounting for what he heard—his own feverish state at the time, in the first place.”
“Perhaps it is on account of this news that Lady Mildred has gone up to town just now,” said Mrs Waldron.
“I hardly think so: there is still the other son, who may be married and have children, or this one, poor fellow, may have left sons himself for all I know. I have never kept up much knowledge of them. You see it cannot matter to us, as it is so very improbable but that Lady Mildred would leave all to her own people if the Osberts died out.”
Mrs Waldron smiled.
“I can’t see it quite that way,” she said; “you are half Osbert, and then you were so associated with the place from being brought up there. I am sure your grand-uncle would rather it had gone to you than to those far-off cousins.”
“Ah, well, it is much better not to think about it,” said Mr Waldron philosophically.
Jerry’s letter took him some time; he was not satisfied with the first production, and being a very particular, not to say “fussy,” little person, he determined to copy it out again. And he was very easily tired still. So it was not till the next day but one that Claudia received the answer to her letter of inquiry.
Her face lighted up with pleasure and amusement as she read it: