‘Yes, that, and a great deal more,’ she goes on now vehemently. ‘That my being here would ruin you. That some lord—your uncle—your grand-uncle—Shan—Shanbally or garry was the name’—striving wildly with her memory—‘would disinherit you because you had let your cottage to me. But that wasn’t just, was it? Why shouldn’t you let your house to me as well as to anybody else, Mr. Wyndham?’—with angry intonation. ‘Is that three hundred a year the Professor left me mine really? Did he leave it to me at all? Oh! if he didn’t—if I am indebted to you for all this comfort, this happiness——’ She breaks down. ‘You are entitled to that money; I swear it!’ says Wyndham. ‘His very last words were of you.’ ‘You are sure! Of course, if not——That might be the reason for their all being angry with me.’ She is so very far off the actual truth that Wyndham hesitates before replying to her. ‘I am quite sure,’ says he presently. ‘The money is yours.’ ‘Then I do not understand your aunt,’ cries she, throwing up her small head proudly. ‘She said a great many other things that I thought very rude—at least, I’m sure they were meant to be rude by her air. But they were so stupid that no one could understand them. I hardly remember them. I only remember those about——’ She breaks off suddenly; tears rise in her saddened eyes. ‘I wish—I wish,’ cries she, in an agonized tone, ‘you had told me that you loved her.’ ‘Loved her! Josephine!’ ‘Is that her name—your cousin’s name?’ ‘Yes, and a most detestable name it is.’ There is frank disgust in his tone. The girl watches him wistfully. ‘Perhaps, after all,’ says she—she hesitates, and the hand on the rose-bush now trembles, though Wyndham never sees it—‘perhaps it wasn’t your cousin she meant. I misunderstood her, I dare say. It’—she looks at him with eager, searching young eyes—‘it was someone else, perhaps——’ ‘Someone else?’ ‘You are in love with.’ She draws back a little, almost leaning against the rose-bush now, and looking up at him from under frightened brows.