“Well, to be sure, so it would be,” said I, “if I had said it. I am not unhappy that I know of, nor happy either. Oh, you little velvet kitten, how do you know how people get through life? One goes jog-jog, and does not stop to find out how one feels. But I’d rather--though I daresay it’s very bad philosophy--have creatures like you do things innocently, without being too particular about the results. Besides, I think Cheshire air is good steady air for the mind,--not exciting, you know. I don’t think we’ve many mad people in our county, eh, Mr. Cresswell?--Did you ever hear of a crazy Mortimer?” Mr. Cresswell looked up at me a little curiously--which, to be sure, not having any command over my face, or habit of concealing what I thought, made me look foolish. Sarah lifted her eyes, too, with a kind of smile which alarmed me--a smile of ridicule and superior knowledge. Perhaps I had exposed my fears to both of them by that question. I shrank away from it immediately, frightened at my own rashness. But Mr. Cresswell would not let me off. “I have always heard that your grand-uncle Lewis was very peculiar,” said Mr. Cresswell,--“he that your cousin is descended from. Let us hope it doesn’t run in Mr. Richard’s family. I suppose there’s no reason to imagine that such a motive would prevent _him_ from marrying?” he continued, rather spitefully. “And it was no wonder if Lewis Mortimer was a little queer. What could you expect? he was the _second son_! an unprecedented accident. The wonder is that something did not happen in consequence. Oh yes, he was _soft_ a little, was your grand-uncle Lewis; but most likely it descended to him from his mother’s side of the house.” “And my father was named after him!” cried I, with a certain dismay. They all laughed, even Sarah. _She_ kept her eyes on me as if searching through me to find out what I meant. She was puzzled a little, I could see. She saw it was not a mere idle question, and wanted to know the meaning. She was not conscious, thank heaven! and people are dismally conscious, as I have heard, when their brain is going. This was a little comfort to me under the unexpected answer I had got, for I certainly never heard of a crazy Mortimer all my life. “If qualities descended by names, my little kitten would be in luck,” said Mr. Cresswell. “But here is a new lot of officers coming, Miss Milly; what would you recommend a poor man to do?” “Papa!” cried Sara, with blazing indignation, “what does any one suppose the officers are to me? You say so to make my own godmamma despise me, though you know it isn’t true! I can bear anything that is true. That is why we always quarrel, papa and I. He does not mind what stories he tells, and thinks it good fun. I am not a flirt, nor never was--never, even when I was too young to know any better. No, godmamma, no more than you are!--nobody dares say it of me.”