"Of course it can't. Unless any one chooses to look at it ominously. I accuse Pym of doing so, and he retorts by wanting to know if I think him superstitious. There's an old belief abroad, you must know, Charlotte, that the St. Johns of Alnwick never live to see their thirty-third birthday." She looked up at him. He was speaking half jestingly, half seriously; with a smile, but not a gay one, on his lips. "But that's not true, George?" "As true as most of such sayings are, invented by old women over their tea-cups. It need not alarm either of us, Charlotte." "But I mean, it is not true that such a belief is abroad?" "Oh, _that's_ true enough. Ask Pym. A great many of us have died just about that age; there's no denying it; and I presume that this has given rise to the popular fancy." "What have they died, of?" "Some of one thing, some of another. A large proportion of the whole have fallen in battle. My great-grandfather died early, leaving seven little sons. Three of them were taken in childhood; the other four lived to see thirty, but not one, of them saw thirty-three. I imagine that the premature death of so large a number of sons must have chiefly given rise to the superstition. Any way, there's no denying the fact that the St. Johns of Alnwick have not been long-lived." "And the St. Johns of Castle Wafer?" "It does not apply to them. Why, Isaac St. John is now all but fifty. It is owing to this mortality that Alnwick has been so often held by a minor. The Hall came to me when I was five years old." "But George"--and she spoke hesitatingly and wistfully--"you _don't_ think there's anything in it?" "Of course I don't. Should I be telling you this gossip if I did?" She thought not, either. She glanced at his fresh complexion, so bright and clear; at the rose-red on his cheeks, speaking, apparently, of health; and her mind grew easy, and she laughed with him. "George! you are now thirty-three!" "No. I shall be thirty-three next May, if I live until then." "If you live till then," she echoed. "Does that imply a doubt of it in your own mind?" "Not at all. I dare say I am in no more danger of dying than others--than Mr. Pym--than old Dr. Graves--than any man you like to think of. In one sense we are all in danger of it, danger continually; and, Charlotte, when any circumstance brings this fact to our minds--for we forget it too much--I think it should serve to make us very regardful of each other, more cautious to avoid inflicting pain on those we love." His words and tone conveyed a pointed meaning. She raised her eyes inquiringly. "Subdue those fits of temper for my sake, Charlotte," he whispered, letting his hand fall on hers. "You don't know how they pain me. I might recall to you their unseemliness, I might urge the sad example they give the children; but I would rather ask it by your love for me. A little effort of will; a little patient self-control, and you would subdue them."