The first impression was of complete insignificance; the second impression was of a girl who might interest one. Her eyes were good--they were the eyes of her grandmother; her hands were small and delicate--they were the hands of her grandmother; her voice was clear and soft, with a distinct utterance quite unlike the thick and husky people among whom she lived. In all these points she resembled her grandmother. Leonard observed these things--it was a distraction to think of the cousin apart from the Family History--and became interested in the girl. “My cousin,” he said unexpectedly, “you are very much like your grandmother.” “Like granny?” She coloured with pleasure. As she was not a girl who kept company with anyone, she had never before received a compliment. “Why, she is beautiful still, and I---- Oh!” She laughed. “You have her voice and her eyes. She seems to be a very sweet and gentle lady.” “She is the sweetest old lady in the world and the gentlest, and, oh! she’s had an awful time.” “I am sorry to think so.” “She cried with pleasure and pride when you went away. For fifty years not a single member of her family has been to see her. I never saw her take on so, and you so kind and friendly. Sam said you had as much pride as a duke.” “Your brother should not judge by first appearances.” “And you were not proud a bit. Well, granny said: ‘Nobody ever told him of the family misfortunes, and it’s shameful. I’ve told him some, but not all, and now I’ll send him my Scrap-book with the trial in it--the trial, you know, of John Dunning for the wilful murder of Langley Holme.’ And I’ve brought it; here it is.” She handed him the parcel in her lap. “That’s why I came.” “Thank you,” said Leonard, laying it carelessly on the table: “I will read it or look at it some time. But I own I am not greatly interested in the trial; it took place too long ago.” “Once she had another copy, but she gave it to your grandfather a few days before he killed himself.” Leonard remembered these words afterwards. For the moment they had no meaning for him. “Granny says we’ve got hereditary misfortunes.” “So she told me. Hereditary? Why?” His brow contracted. “I don’t know why. Hereditary misfortunes are supposed to imply ancestral crimes.” “She puts it like this. If it hadn’t been hereditary misfortune she wouldn’t have married grandfather; he wouldn’t have been bankrupt; father wouldn’t have been only a small clerk; Sam would have been something in a large way; and I should be a lady instead of a Board School teacher.” “You can be both, my cousin. Now look at the other side. Your grandfather was ruined, I take it, by his own incompetence; his poverty was his own doing. Your father never rose in the world, I suppose, because he had no power of fight. Your brother has got into a respectable profession; what right has he to complain?”