I meanwhile resolved to consult those books again before the further examination should take place.

“You have practised every day on the piano in addition to your other work; may I ask how long a time you allowed yourself?”

“At least an hour, sometimes when it was wet or unpleasant out of doors I took longer time.  Never more than three hours, I believe.”

“We will take an hour or two after dinner over your music, after this once a week, we will spend a short time in reviewing what you read.”

A new anxiety seized me at this promised ordeal.  I fancied examinations and I had said good-bye forever when I left the school-room.

“I trust you will not think me severe if I insist on thoroughness in everything.  I am wearied seeing so much good money and time wasted on young girls!  With the majority of them, once they have left their teacher’s side, all their interest in further mental culture is at an end.”

“Some great writers say that our schooling is simply to train the mind to work, fitting it, so to speak, with necessary tools like a well-equipped mechanic.”

“But if the tools are never utilized, what good are they merely to lie and rust?”

“Who can affirm positively that they are never utilized?  Even the shallowest boarding-school Miss may carry herself more gracefully in society than one of your usefulest women—­Mrs. Blake, for instance.”

“How do you know anything about Mrs. Blake?” he asked abruptly.

“I met her on the train when I came here and she talked some time with me.”

“It is not usual for persons in your position to permit such liberties.”

“I thought in America all were reckoned equal.”

“You are not an American.”

“Shall I return then to Europe?  I could always travel first-class, and so be safe from vulgar intrusion.”

“Until your majority your father decided that your home was to be here after you left school.”

“At what age do I attain my majority?” I asked eagerly.

“Are you tired of Oaklands?” His eyes were watching me intently.

“Never, until to day.”  I faltered, exceedingly frightened, but forced to tell the truth.

He turned over the leaves of the Caesar for a few seconds, in silence, then he said in quite gentle tones:—­

“You are tired; we will leave books for another day.”

I bowed, but dared not trust myself to speak lest I might reveal that my tears were struggling to find vent, and began gathering up my sketches.  He took up a view of Oaklands over which I had lingered lovingly for a good many hours, adding what I fondly thought were perfecting touches and said:—­

“I should like to keep this, if you will give it to me.”

My heart instantly grew lighter, so that I was able to say quite calmly that he was very welcome to it.  This, however, was the only compliment he paid me for the work over which I had been expending so much time and effort during the past few months; but I had done the work much in the same fashion that the birds sing—­from instinct.