“I confess, so far, it was a mistake; but still we may hear something,” said Harry. “You have heard me talk of old Pendleton scores of times. Fancy how I looked when he began about Haworth, a little town in Yorkshire, all sorts of stories, as if he knew all about it. After I had sat out a dozen anecdotes of other people, I asked him if he knew any Mortimers there. Oh yes, yes! he said briskly, old Mortimer lived in the brick house opposite the church; famous old fellow before he got so very rheumatic and useless--had a son about Pendleton’s own age. And here he shook his head: ‘Never did any good, sir! never did any good! Jilted in early life, and never got over it.’ You may suppose this made me prick up my ears.” “My father!” said I. “To be sure! it could not be anybody else; but it was your grandfather whom old Pendleton would keep talking of. I asked very closely all about him. It appears he only died about ten years ago; long after your father, Milly, and seems to have been tolerably rich, according to Pendleton. There’s none of the family remaining, Pendleton says. The red brick house is all falling to ruins; and how the money went, or whether there was any money, he can’t tell. I have a strong idea of making some inquiries about it. Don’t you think it would be worth while?” “It seems to me of late that you’re always thinking about money. Why is it?” said I. “Why should we go and trouble ourselves about people that have never inquired after us.” “You simpleton!” cried Harry. “Who cares whether they like us or no; but that red brick cosy house for my Milly darling, and a little comfort to console her--it would take all the pricks out of my pillow when----” “Don’t talk, Harry. I’ll not listen to you. I’ll have no inquiries made,” cried I, in desperation. “Every time I comfort myself a little you pull me back again. To-night I am very happy and content, and don’t care for your to-morrows. Be quiet and let my grandfather alone, if I ever had one. What do I care for him? He was either in debt and had no money to leave, or he was living on an annuity, or he endowed a hospital, or something. And the red brick house of course is in Chancery. Let the old gentleman alone. I’ll tell you about baby. He certainly noticed Mrs. Saltoun’s bird swinging in its cage to-day.” “Nonsense! Pendleton is to write to his brother, who lives there, and ask for all the particulars. He says your grandfather was a character,” said Harry. “He belonged to some good family: Welsh, Pendleton thinks--but professed to scorn all that, and called his son after Arkwright, the cotton-spinner; that’s what the A. means in your father’s name. By Jove! I wouldn’t write myself Richard Arkwright if I could help it. What humbug it is giving fellows other people’s names! They must have had a fancy for it in those days. Guess what Pendleton’s own name is? He signs himself E. B. quite modestly. It’s Edmund Burke, upon my honour!”