“I fear you must, indeed, my dear. As other people have had to do.” “Well, I donʼt see why, unless God takes him; and then He should take me too. And, indeed, I had better tell you once for all, Uncle Cradock, that I do not mean to try. It would be so shabby of me, after what I told him just now, and after his saving my life; and you yourself said yesterday that no Nowell had ever been shabby. You have been very kind to me and good, and I love you very much, I am sure. But in spite of all that, I wish you clearly to understand, Uncle Cradock, that if you try any nonsense with me, I shall get my darling fatherʼs money, and go and live away from you.” “My dear,” said the old man, smiling at the manner and tone of her menace, which she delivered as if her departure must at least annihilate him, “you are laying your plans too rapidly. You are not seventeen until next July; and you cannot touch your poor fatherʼs money until you are twenty–one.” “I donʼt care,” she replied; “he is sure to have been right about it. But I will tell you another thing. Everybody says that I could earn ten thousand a year as an opera–dancer in London. And I should like it very much,—that is to say, if Bob did. And I would not think of changing my name, as I have heard that most of them do. I should be ‘Miss Eoa Nowell, the celebrated dancer.’” “God forbid!” said Sir Cradock. “My only brotherʼs only child! I will not trouble you about him, dear. Only I beg you to consider.” “To be sure I will, Uncle Cradock, I have been considering ever since how long it must be till I marry him. Now give me a kiss, dear, and I wonʼt dance, except for your amusement. And I donʼt think I can dance for a long time, after what I have been told about poor Cousin Cradock. I am sure he was very nice, uncle, from what everybody says of him, and I am almost certain that you behaved very badly to him.” “My dear, you are allowed to say what you like, because nobody can stop you. But your own good feeling should make you spare me the pain of that sad subject.” “Not if you deserve the pain for having been hard–hearted. And much you cared for my pain, when you spoke of Bob so. Besides, you are quite sure to hear of it; and it had better come from me, dear uncle, who am so considerate.” “Something new? What is it, my child? I can bear almost anything now.” “It is that some vile wretches are trying to get what they call a warrant against him, and so to put him in jail.” “Put him in jail? My unfortunate son! What more has he been doing?” “Nothing at all. And I donʼt believe that he ever did any harm. But what the brutes say is that he did that terrible thing on purpose. Oh, uncle, donʼt look at me like that. How I wish I had never told you!”