'We must ask Aunt Clotilda to tell us all about it,' she said. 'I daresay she has books where we can read about it, too. Papa and mamma would be pleased if we—oh dear! there it comes in about that will to spoil things again! I suppose it's best not to write much about things here to them; it would only make it seem worse to them.'
'Perhaps it would,' said Neville; 'but we can say lots about Aunt Clotilda, and that will please papa and mamma. Oh, Kathie, don't you like her?'
Kathie grew rather red.
'Yes,' she said, 'I do. I like her awfully. I love her, Neville, and—and—I'm very sorry I called her stupid, and all that.'
'Dear Kathie,' said Neville, 'you didn't know her.'
'Well, no more did you,' said Kathleen; 'but you're much better than me, Neville. So is Philippa.'
'Dear Kathie,' said Neville again, 'it's only that you've not had mamma with you, or anybody like that. I was older than you, you know, when they left us. And Philippa's always had her mother. But now you have aunty.'
'Yes,' said Kathleen; but she sighed as she said it.
