raising terror in his soul.

"You knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously.

"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me when--when I was
younger. I was very fond of him."

"He was good to everyone," says Miss Wynter, staring hard at the
professor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with
his glasses could never have been younger. He must always have been
older than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been so
dear to her.

"What were you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor
gently.

"Only what he used to call me--_Doatie!_ I suppose," wistfully, "you
couldn't call me that?"

"I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper.

"I'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrowful curve.
"But don't call me Miss Wynter, at all events, or 'my dear.' I do so
want someone to call me by my Christian name," says the poor child
sadly.

"Perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly.

"No--'Pet,'" corrects she. "It's shorter, you know, and far easier
to say."