"You are----"

"Your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. It is
plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. She smiles up at
him in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren't
you?"

"Yes," says the professor, without enthusiasm. He has seated
himself, not on the chair she has pointed out to him, but on a very
distant lounge. He is conscious of a feeling of growing terror. This
lovely child has created it, yet why, or how? Was ever guardian
mastered by a ward before? A desire to escape is filling him, but he
has got to do his duty to his dead friend, and this is part of it.

He has retired to the far-off lounge with a view to doing it as
distantly as possible, but even this poor subterfuge fails him. Miss
Wynter, picking up a milking-stool, advances leisurely towards him,
and seating herself upon it just in front of him, crosses her hands
over her knees and looks expectantly up at him with a charming
smile.

"_Now_ we can have a good talk," says she.



CHAPTER III.