tion to stick in his throat. "Your cousin is gone?" he said.
"To his own room. He has some letters to write."
"Shall I hold your wools?" Roger asked, after a pause.
"Thank you. They are all wound."
"For whom are your slippers?" He knew, of course; but the question came.
"For George. Did I not tell you? Do you think them pretty?" And she held up her work.
"Prettier than he deserves."
Nora gave him a rapid glance and miscounted her stitch. "You don't like poor George," she said.
"No. Since you ask me, I don't like poor George."
Nora was silent. At last: "Well!" she said, "you 've not the same reasons as I have."
"So I am bound to believe! You must have excellent reasons."
"Excellent. He is my own, you know."
"Your own—? Ah!" And he gave a little laugh.
"My own cousin," said Nora.
"Your own grandfather!" cried Roger.
She stopped her work. "What do you mean?" she asked gravely.
Roger began to blush a little. "I mean—I mean—that I don't believe in your cousin. He does n't satisfy me. I don't like him. He contradicts himself, his story does n't hang together. I have nothing but his word. I am not bound to take it."
"Roger, Roger," said Nora, with great softness, "do you mean that he is an impostor?"
