"I think I must have been brought up differently," returned Bessie simply. "I recollect in our nursery days mother used to tell us that little bodies ought not to have grown-up wills; and when we got older, and wanted to get the reins in our own hands, as young people will, she would say, 'Gently, gently, girls; you may be grown up, but you will never be as old as your parents--'" But here Bessie stopped, on seeing that her companion was struggling with suppressed merriment. "It does sound so funny, don't you know! Oh, I don't mean to be rude, but are not your people just a little bit old-fashioned and behind the times? I don't want to shock you; I am far too grateful for your company. Mamma and I thoroughly understand each other. I am very fond of her, and I am as sorry as possible to vex her by getting into this mess;" and here the girl heaved a very genuine sigh. "And you live in London?" Bessie was politely changing the subject. "Oh, no; but we have some friends there, and I was going to break my journey and do a little shopping. Our home is in Kent; we live at Oatlands--such a lovely, quiet little place--far too quiet for me; but since I came out mamma always spends the season in town. The Grange--that is our house--is really Richard's--my brother's, I mean." "The Grange--Oatlands? I am sure I know that name," returned Bessie, in a puzzled tone; "and yet where could I have heard it?" She thought a moment, and then added quickly, "Your name cannot be Sefton?" "To be sure it is," replied the other girl, opening her brown eyes rather wildly; "Edna Sefton; but how could you have guessed it?" "Then your mother's name is Eleanor?" "I begin to think this is mysterious, and that you must be a witch, or something uncanny. I know all mamma's friends, and I am positive not one of them ever lived at Cliffe-on-Sea." "And you are quite sure of that? Has your mother never mentioned the name of a Dr. Lambert?" "Dr. Lambert! No. Wait a moment, though. Mamma is very fond of talking about old days, when she was a girl, don't you know, and there was a young doctor, very poor, I remember, but his name was Herbert." "My father's name is Herbert, and he was very poor once, when he was a young man; he is not rich now. I think, many years ago, he and your mother were friends. Let me tell you all I know about it. About a year ago he asked me to post a letter for him. I remember reading aloud the address in an absent sort of way: 'Mrs. Sefton, The Grange, Oatlands, Kent;' and my father looked up from his writing, and said, 'That is only a business letter, Bessie, but Mrs. Sefton and I are old correspondents. When she was Eleanor Sartoris, and I was a young fellow as poor as a church mouse, we were good friends; but she married, and then I married; but that is a lifetime ago; she was a handsome girl, though.'"