"Oh, no!" says Rylton, roused a little.

The child's face is so earnest. He feels a little amused, and
somewhat surprised. She seems the last person in the world capable
of hatred.

"Yes, I do," says she, nodding her delightful little head, "and he
knows it. People say a lot about family resemblances, but it seems
wicked to think Uncle George is papa's brother. For my part,"
recklessly, "I don't believe it."

"Perhaps he's a changeling," says Sir Maurice.

"Oh, don't be silly," says Miss Bolton. "Now, listen to this." She
leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her eyes glistening with
wrath. "I had a terrier, a _lovely_ one, and she had six puppies,
and, would you believe it! he drowned every one of them--said they
were ill-bred, or something. And they weren't, they _couldn't_ have
been; they were perfectly beautiful, and my darling Scrub fretted
herself nearly to death after them. I begged almost on my knees that
he would leave her _one_, and he wouldn't." Her eyes are now full of
tears. "He is a beast!" says she. This last word seems almost comic,
coming from her pretty childish lips.

"Well, but you see," says Rylton, "some men pride themselves on the
pedigree of their dogs, and perhaps your uncle----"

"Oh, if you are going to defend him!" says she, rising with a stiff
little air.