“I couldn’t read your books,” says she; “and—­you haven’t any novels, I suppose?”

“No,” says he.  “But——­”

“I don’t care for any books but novels,” says she, sighing.  “Have you read ‘Alas?’ I never have anything to read here, because Aunt Jane says novels are of the devil, and that if I read them I shall go to hell.”

“Nonsense!” says the professor gruffly.

“You mustn’t think I’m afraid about that," says Perpetua demurely; “I’m not.  I know the same place could never contain Aunt Jane and me for long, so I’m all right.”

The professor struggles with himself for a moment and then gives way to mirth.

“Ah! now you are on my side,” cries his ward exultantly.  She tucks her arm into his.  “And as for all that talk about ’knowledge’—­don’t bother me about that any more.  It’s a little rude of you, do you know?  One would think I was a dunce—­that I knew nothing—­whereas, I assure you,” throwing out her other hand, “I know quite as much as most girls, and a great deal more than many.  I daresay,” putting her head to one side, and examining him thoughtfully, “I know more than you do, if it comes to that.  I don’t believe you know this moment who wrote ‘The Master of Ballantrae.’  Come now, who was it?”

She leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if anticipating his defeat.  As for the professor, he grows red—­he draws his brows together.  Truly this is a most impertinent pupil!  ‘The Master of Ballantrae.’  It sounds like Sir Walter, and yet—­The professor hesitates and is lost.

“Scott,” says he, with as good an air as he can command.

“Wrong,” cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly.  “Oh! you ignorant man!  Go buy that book at once.  It will do you more good and teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes.”

She laughs gaily.  It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of way, that her laugh, at all events, would do anyone good.

She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as if thinking, but now looks up at him.

“If you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don’t you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?” She has come nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon his arm.

“I am sure it would be useless,” says he, taking off his glasses and putting them on again in an anxious fashion.  They are both speaking in whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange sort of pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with her.  “Besides,” says he, “I couldn’t very well come here again.”

“Not come again?  Why?”

“I’d be afraid,” returns he simply.  Whereon Miss Wynter, after a second’s pause, gives way and laughs “consumedly,” as they would have said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light.