"Are you really my cousin?" said I, "have you just come from India? why did we never know before? and your name is Edgar?--a great many of the Southcotes have been called Edgar--how old are you?--I never knew I had a cousin, or any near friends, and neither did papa; but I have heard every body talk of uncle Brian. Poor boy! you have no father--you are not so happy as I--" But to my great amazement, and just at the moment I was holding out my hand to him, and was about to say that my father would love him as he did me--my new cousin, a boy, a man--he ought to have had more spirit!--suddenly burst into a great fit of tears, and in the strangest passionate manner, cried out to the man, "I cannot bear it, Saville--Saville, take me away!" I had no longer any curiosity or care about the man; but I was very much surprised at this, and could not understand it--and I was a little ashamed and indignant besides to see a boy cry. "What is the matter?" I asked again, with some of my natural imperiousness, "why do you cry--is anything wrong? Is your name Edgar Southcote, and yet you cry like a child? Do you not know we are called the proudest house in the country; and what is this man doing, or what does he want here? why should he take you away? you ought to be at Cottiswoode if you are Edgar Southcote--what do you mean?" "Cheer up, Master Edgar--your cousin is quite right, you ought to be at Cottiswoode, and nowhere else, my boy," said the man, giving him such a blow on the shoulders, in encouragement, that the delicate boy trembled under it. "Why, where is your spirit! come, come, since the young lady's owned you, we'll go straight to the old gentleman again; and you'll see what papa will say to you, Miss, when he sees what you bring him home." I did not answer, but turned away my head from this person, who filled me with disgust and annoyance: then their slow pace roused me to impatience. I was always a few steps before them, for Saville's gliding pace was uniformly slow, and the pale boy, who was called my cousin, lingered still more than his companion. He never answered me--not a word, though I put so many questions to him, and he seemed so downcast and sad, so unlike a boy going home--so very, very unlike me, that I could not understand him. I was so very eager to return to tell my father, and to ask him if this was truly an Edgar Southcote, that our slow progress chafed me the more.