As Hope grew older she had teachers at home—­recluse old scholars, decayed clergymen in shiny black coats, who taught her Latin, and looked at her through round spectacles, and, as they looked, remembered that they were once young.  She had teachers of history, of grammar, of arithmetic—­of all English studies.  Some of these Mentors were weak-eyed fathers of ten children, who spoke so softly that their wives must have had loud voices.  Others were young college graduates, with low collars and long hair, who read with Miss Wayne in English literature, while Mrs. Simcoe sat knitting in the next chair.  Then there had been the Italian music-masters, and the French teachers, very devoted, never missing a lesson, but also never missing Mrs. Simcoe, who presided over all instruction which was imparted by any Mentor under sixty.

But when Hope grew older still and found Byron upon the shelves of the Library, his romantic sadness responded to the vague longing of her heart.  Instinctively she avoided all that repels a woman in his verses, as she would have avoided the unsound parts of a fruit.  But the solitary, secluded girl lived unconsciously and inevitably in a dream world, for she had no knowledge of any other, nor contact with it.  Proud and shy, her heart was restless, her imagination morbid, and she believed in heroes.

When Dr. Peewee had told Mr. Burt all that he knew about the project of the school, Mr. Burt rang the bell violently.

“Send Miss Hope to me.”

The servant disappeared, and in a few moments Hope Wayne entered the room.  To Dr. Peewee’s eyes she seemed wrapped only in a cloud of delicate muslin, and the wind had evidently been playing with her golden hair, for she had been lying upon the lawn reading Byron.

“Did you want me, grandfather?”

“Yes, my dear.  Mr. Gray, a respectable person, is coming here to set up a school.  There will be a great many young men and boys.  I shall never ask them to the house.  I hate boys.  I expect you to hate them too.”

“Yes—­yes, my dear,” said Dr. Peewee; “hate the boys?  Yes; we must hate the boys.”

Hope Wayne looked at the two old gentlemen, and answered,

“I don’t think you need have warned me, grandfather; I’m not so apt to fall in love with boys.”

“No, no, Hope; I know.  Ever since you have lived with me—­how long is it, my dear, since your mother died?”

“I don’t know, grandfather; I never saw her,” replied Hope, gravely.

“Yes, yes; well, ever since then you have been a good, quiet little girl with grandpapa.  Here, Cossy, come and give grandpa a kiss.  And mind the boys!  No speaking, no looking—­we are never to know them.  You understand?  Now go, dear.”

As she closed the door, Dr. Peewee also rose to take leave.

“Doctor,” said Mr. Burt, as the other pushed back his chair, “it is a very warm day.  Let me advise you to guard against any sudden debility or effect of the heat by a little cordial.”