"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of
the small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them that
might well be termed coaxing. _"Do,"_ says she.

"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow.
He almost _shakes_ off the little clinging fingers in his
astonishment and agitation. Has she no common sense--no knowledge of
the things that be?

She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely.

"Impossible to leave Aunt Jane?" questions she. It is evident she
has not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well,"
defiantly, "we shall see!"

_"Why_ don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professor
distractedly. He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as
he did an hour ago.

"Because," lucidly, "she _is_ Aunt Jane. If she were _your_ Aunt
Jane you would know."

"But my dear----"

"I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't
call me 'my dear.' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to say
something horrid to me. Papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears
rush to her dark eyes.

"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears