"That's true." He hesitated again before he went on. "You know that my brother--he is your uncle Cyril, of course--is ill, and I may possibly go out to him?" "Yes, father, I know." "I want to find out how ill he is, if it is possible, from the account he gives of himself. A specialist may know." "You never told me anything about him. Is he older than you?" "Of course. That is why he inherited the title." "Oh!" She looked up rather amused. Chidhurst folk had none of the snobbishness of London, but titles are picturesque and even romantic to a young imagination. "What title?" "He is Lord Eastleigh," Mr. Vincent answered, reluctantly, "as my father was before him; but a title without property to keep it up is not a very praiseworthy possession. It generally suggests that there has been extravagance or bad management, or something of the sort." He stopped again, and then went on quickly: "After his marriage he went to Australia, and we knew nothing of each other for years till he wrote some months ago." "Mother told me. Are you rich, father--can you afford to go to him?" "I have two hundred a year and a legacy of five hundred pounds--it came in some time ago, and will pay the expenses of the journey." "I see." Gradually she was grasping the family position. "It must be dreadful for his wife, to be all that way off alone with him, and he going to die." He looked up in surprise. It had not occurred to him to feel any sympathy for his brother's wife. He liked Margaret for thinking of her. "Yes, I suppose it is," he said; "though I believe she wasn't a very desirable person. I don't know whether I'm wise to give you these details. They are not necessary to our life at Chidhurst." "But I'm growing older," she said, eagerly, and held out her hands to him as if she were groping her way through the world with them. "I want to know things. Don't keep them from me." He looked at her in dismay. It was the old cry--the cry of his own youth. "I won't," he said, and kissed her forehead.