Violet looked up with mingled astonishment and pity, and opened her eyes wide. She, who had already begun to look at advertisements of books, and to tease Mr. Syme, the librarian in the Cowcaddens, about new publications, which he had never heard of, and which in the ordinary course, would not reach him these hundred years--she to be asked how many books she had read! Violet was amazed at the want of apprehension, which such a question displayed. “I have read a great heap--and I can say the Lord of the Isles, by heart, and bits of the Lady of the Lake.” Cuthbert’s ignorance had given Violet a little courage; but as she met his eye, her head drooped again, and she relapsed into her former shyness. “And how old are you, Violet?” “I shall be eleven next May.” Violet had already had very grave thoughts on this subject of her age. It seemed a stupendous thing to pass that tenth milestone. “Violet--where did you get that pretty name of yours,” said Cuthbert, drawing his hand over her small dark head. “It was my mother’s name,” said the little girl reverently. The conversation came to a sudden pause. Conscious that he had a motive in asking those seeming simple questions, Cuthbert felt confused, and could not go on--so he turned to the copy-book. “Have you written all this yourself, Violet?” He had gone back to the beginning, and there certainly was to be traced the formation of a different hand from Violet’s--the respectable, womanly writing which had placed those odd copy lines on the later pages; he traced it as it improved, through a good many different steps of progress, and at the end found a clear, good-looking signature, proclaiming it to be the work of Rose A. Muir. “Rose A. Muir,” he repeated it unawares aloud. The bearer of the name started with a slight blush. Martha glanced at him with grave scrutiny--and little Violet, looking admiringly at her sister’s handwriting, explained, “Rose was called after my grandmother.” “It is not a common name,” said Cuthbert, growing embarrassed under the grave eye of Martha. “May I ask Miss Rose, what is represented by this A.” “It will be Anne or Alice, or some stupid woman’s name,” he said to himself, while his heart beat a little quicker. “I was called after my grandmother, Mr. Charteris, as Lettie says,” said Rose, shyly. “It is Rose Allenders--that was her name.” The young man started visibly. He had no idea of falling on anything so clear as this; but Martha looked at him with sudden curiosity, and he felt himself compelled to make some explanation. “It is by no means a usual name, Miss Muir,” said Cuthbert, turning to the elder sister. “I know something.--I am slightly acquainted with a family called Allenders. Did this lady--your grandmother, Miss Rose--come from the east country?” “I cannot tell, indeed,” said Rose. “She died very long ago--before any of us were born.”