“I came,” he said at last, “to inquire about Kit’s House, which I hear is to let.”

“Thankin’ you kindly, sir,” answered Peter; “an’ I won’t say but what we shall be glad to let et.  But Paul and I ha’ been puttin’ our heads togither, and we allow ’tes for Tamsin to say.”

Here he looked at Paul, who nodded gravely and repeated, in his former mechanical tone, “for Tamsin to say.”

Mr. Fogo looked more distressed than ever.

“I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” he began, with a quick glance at the girl, who was quietly pouring tea; “I did not know.”

“No offence, sir.  On’y, don’t you see, ’tes this way.  Kit’s House es a gran’ place wi’ a slaty roof an’ a I-talian garden, and a mighty deal too fine for the likes of Paul an’ me.  But wi’ Tamsin ’tes another thing.  We both agree she ought to be a leddy—­not but what she’s a better gal than tens o’ thousands o’ leddies—­an’ more than once we’ve offered to get her larnt the pi-anner an’ callysthenics, an’ the use o’ globes, an’ all such things which we knows to be usual in gran’ sussiety; on’y she sticks to et to bide along wi’ we.  God bless her!  I say, an’ a rough life et must be for her.”

Tamsin turned away towards the fireplace, and became very busy among the pot-hooks and hangers.  Her brother pulled out a red handkerchief—­a fellow to the one around his neck—­mopped his face and proceeded—­

“Well, as I was a-saying, seein’ she was bent on bein’ wi’ us, Paul and me allowed to each other that we’d set up in fine style at Kit’s House, so as not to rob her of what es her doo:  that es to say—­one of us wou’d live down there wi’ a car’ge and pair o’ hosses, and cut a swell wi’ dinner parties an’ what-not, while the other bided here an’ tilled ‘taties, turn and turn about.  But she wudn’ hear o’ that, neither.  She’s a terrible stubborn gal, bless her!”

“We shou’d ha’ been slow at larnin’ the ropes, just at fust,” he resumed after a moment’s silence, “not bein’ scholards, partikler at the use o’ globes, which I have heerd es diffycult, though very entertainin’ in company when you knows how ’tes done.  But we was ready to try a hand—­on’y she wudn’ have et, an’ so et has gone on.  But, beggin’ your pardon, sir, and hopin’ no offence, she shall give her answer afore ’tes too late.  Eh, Paul?”

“You have spoken, Peter,” said the other twin, very slowly, “like a printed book.  Let Tamsin speak her mind about et.”

The girl came forward from the fireplace, and Mr. Fogo, as he stole a glance at her, could see that her eyes were red.

“What do ’ee say, Tamsin?  Must we let Kit’s House, or shall we leave th’ ould place an’ go an’ make a leddy of ’ee?”

Tamsin’s reply was to fall on her knees before the speaker and break into a fit of weeping.

“Don’t ask me, don’t ask me!  I don’t want to be a lady, an’ I won’t leave you.  Don’t ask me, my dear, dear brothers!”