"You may call me stupid, if you like," she said, "but I've found out something else. The name is 'Regina'—my second name;" for Tib's whole name was Mercedes Regina. "Mercedes Regina Ansdell"—isn't that an awfully grand name for a little girl? She was a little girl then.
I seized the book in my turn. Sure enough, now that Tib had put the idea into my head, it seemed quite plain—even through the very thick crossing-out one could see the confused shapes of the word "Regina."
"You're right, Gussie," said Tib; "there is a mystery. You remember that time that grandpapa was grumbling at my name—like he did this morning—and I said, 'Mightn't I be called by my second name?' how he snapped out, 'No, certainly not.' It frightened me so, I remember. There must have been somebody called 'Regina Ansdell' that he didn't like, or he was angry with, or something. Oh! how I do wonder who she was, and why he has never told us about her?"
"We might ask nurse," I said. "I am sure she knows something—for you see, this Regina Ansdell must have lived at Rosebuds, and it's something about there that Liddy has heard, and won't tell us. And I shouldn't wonder if it has to do with grandpapa's not wanting us to know any of the people there."
"What can it be?" said Tib, her eyes growing bigger and rounder. "There can't surely be any one shut up there—a mysterious lady called 'Regina.' Oh, no, that can't be it, for grandpapa would never take us there if there were. Besides—though he's rather frightening and strict—grandpapa's not bad and wicked."
"The Queen wouldn't let him be in the Parliament if he were," said I. "At least, I suppose not."
"It's good of him to have all of us living with him. Nursey says it is. I don't think we've got any money of our own."
"Well, we're his grandchildren, and it isn't our fault that papa and mamma died," I said. "I don't think that's so very good of him. Still, he is good to us in some ways, I know."
Tib was still staring at the book.
"I don't think it's any use asking nurse," she said. "If she does know anything she doesn't want to tell us. And it's no use telling Gerald: he's too little. If we told him not to speak of it, he'd very likely get red the first time grandpapa looked at him—like that day you filled the hood of Miss Evans' waterproof with peas, and he kept staring at it all the time of our lessons, till she found out there was something the matter."