‘Still, they did give him a certain spurious immortality,’ put in Margaret pitifully. ‘The other was out of his reach.’ ‘Surely, my dear Miss Slade, you cannot mean that?’ remonstrated Dennis gently. ‘At all events, everybody was very hard upon him just because they were taken in,’ argued Margaret. ‘If he had acknowledged what they admired so much to have been his own, they would have seen nothing in it to admire. I think Horace Walpole behaved like a brute.’ ‘That is very true,’ admitted Dennis. ‘Still, the lad was a forger.’ ‘People are not starved to death, as _he_ was, even for forging,’ rejoined Margaret. ‘His own people, too, did not care about him. He had no friends, poor fellow.’ Dennis listened to her with pleasure—though he thought her too lenient—because she took the side of the oppressed. William Henry was even more grateful, because he secretly compared his own position with that of Chatterton—for _he_ too had written poems which nobody thought much of—and guessed that Margaret had his own case in her eye. ‘Amongst other things that Mrs. Newton told me,’ continued William Henry, ‘was that her brother was very reserved and fond of seclusion. On one occasion he was most severely chastised for having absented himself for half a day from home. He did not shed a tear, but only observed that it was hard indeed to be whipped for reading.’ ‘It was certainly most unfortunate,’ admitted Dennis, ‘that the boy was amongst persons who did not understand him.’ ‘And who, though they were his own flesh and blood, treated him with contempt and cruelty,’ added Margaret, with indignation. ‘Did this sister of his never give him credit for possessing talent even?’ ‘She thought him odd as a child, it seems,’ answered William Henry. ‘He preferred to be taught his letters from an old black-letter Bible rather than from any book of modern type. He seems to have had a natural leaning for the line that he took in life.’ ‘In other words, you think he was born with a turn for forgery,’ observed Dennis drily. ‘That is not a very high compliment to him, nor indeed to Providence either.’ ‘But how else could he have become celebrated?’ argued the young man impatiently. ‘Is it necessary then, my lad, to become celebrated?’ inquired Dennis, smiling. ‘I don’t say necessary, but it must be very nice.’ ‘The same thing may be said of most of our vices,’ answered the other reprovingly. Frank Dennis often spoke the words of wisdom, but spoke them cut and dried, like proverbs from a copy-book. He was an excellent fellow, but not quite human enough for ordinary use. Margaret would have liked him better, perhaps, if he had been a trifle worse. The pedagogic tone in which he had spoken to her cousin, and his use of the words ‘my lad,’ which, as she argued to herself (quite wrongly), he _must_ know were very offensive to him, irritated her a little. She felt that William Henry had been schooled enough, and wanted encouragement.