letters look like!"

"Oh, yes, I know a little about it!"

"I think not, Sylvia. How could you?"

"Oh, the letters were so queer, I learned them just for fun out of an
old textbook I found on the campus one day. Nobody ever came to claim
it, so I read it all through and learned all the declensions and
vocabularies, though I only guessed at the pronunciation."

Professor Kelton was greatly amused. "You tackled Greek just for fun,
did you?" he laughed; then, after a moment's absorption: "I'm going to
Indianapolis to-morrow and I'll take you with me, if you care to go
along. In fact, I've written to Mrs. Owen that we're coming, and I've
kept this as a little surprise for you."

So, after an early breakfast the next morning, they were off for the
station in one of those disreputable, shaky village hacks that Dr.
Wandless always called "dark Icarian birds," with their two bags piled
on the seat before them. On the few railway journeys Sylvia remembered,
she had been carried on half-fare tickets, an ignominy which she
recalled with shame. To-day she was a full-grown passenger with a seat
to herself, her grandfather being engaged through nearly the whole of
their hour's swift journey in a political discussion with a lawyer who
was one of the college trustees.

"I told Mrs. Owen not to meet us; it's a nuisance having to meet
people," said the professor when they had reached the city. "But she
always sends a carriage when she expects me."