The next day Miss Pollingray joined us, wearing a feutre gris and green plume, which looked exceedingly odd until you became accustomed to it.  Her hair has decided gray streaks, and that, and the Queen Elizabeth nose, and the feutre gris!—­but she is so kind, I could not even smile in my heart.  It is singular that Mr. Pollingray, who’s but three years her junior, should look at least twenty years younger—­at the very least.  His moustache and beard are of the colour of a corn sheaf, and his blue eyes shining over them remind me of summer.  That describes him.  He is summer, and has not fallen into his autumn yet.  Miss Pollingray helped me to talk a little.  She tried to check her brother’s enthusiasm for our scenery, and extolled the French paysage.  He laughed at her, for when they were in France it was she who used to say, ‘There is nothing here like England!’ Miss Fool rode between them attentive to the jingling of the bells in her cap:  ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ at anybody’s command, in and out of season.

Thank you, Charles, for your letter!  I was beginning to think my invitation to Dayton inexplicable, when that letter arrived.  I cannot but deem it an unworthy baseness to entrap a girl to study her without a warning to her.  I went up to my room after I had read it, and wrote in reply till the breakfast-bell rang.  I resumed my occupation an hour later, and wrote till one o’clock.  In all, fifteen pages of writing, which I carefully folded and addressed to Charles; sealed the envelope, stamped it, and destroyed it.  I went to bed.  ’No, I won’t ride out to-day, I have a headache!’ I repeated this about half-a-dozen times to nobody’s knocking on the door, and when at last somebody knocked I tried to repeat it once, but having the message that Mr. Pollingray particularly wished to have my company in a ride, I rose submissively and cried.  This humiliation made my temper ferocious.  Mr. Pollingray observed my face, and put it down in his notebook.  ‘A savage disposition,’ or, no, ‘An untamed little rebel’; for he has hopes of me.  He had the cruelty to say so.

‘What I am, I shall remain,’ said I.

He informed me that it was perfectly natural for me to think it; and on my replying that persons ought to know themselves best:  ’At my age, perhaps,’ he said, and added, ’I cannot speak very confidently of my knowledge of myself.’

‘Then you make us out to be nothing better than puppets, Mr. Pollingray.’

’If we have missed an early apprenticeship to the habit of self-command, ma filleule.’

‘Merci, mon parrain.’

He laughed.  My French, I suppose.

I determined that, if he wanted to study me, I would help him.

‘I can command myself when I choose, but it is only when I choose.’

This seemed to me quite a reasonable speech, until I found him looking for something to follow, in explanation, and on coming to sift my meaning, I saw that it was temper, and getting more angry, continued: