"Yes, your worship."
"Are your parents living?"
"No, your worship."
"When did they die?"
"My mother died sixteen years ago, my father three years later."
"And yet you say this infant is your elder sister?"
"Oh, sir, my lord, your worship," said the weeping Prudence, "I assure you I am speaking the truth. I know I can't expect anyone to believe me, but indeed it is true."
There was movement and merriment at the solicitors' table, and a voice said in a whisper,
"Queer delusion! Mad as a hatter!"
Prudence heard the words, and drew herself up with some dignity.
"No," she said, "I am not mad; it is no delusion. Will you allow me to make a plain statement, your worship? The child I handed to that wicked woman is my sister, and is older than I. We bought a bottle of the Water of Youth that we saw advertised in the Lady's Pictorial. She should have drunk very little, but unfortunately she took an overdose, and you may believe me or not,
