assure you," throwing out her other hand, "I know _quite_ as much as
most girls, and a great deal more than many. I daresay," putting her
head to one side, and examining him thoughtfully, "I know more than
you do, if it comes to that. I don't believe you know this moment
who wrote 'The Master of Ballantrae.' Come now, who was it?"

She leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if
anticipating his defeat. As for the professor, he grows red--he
draws his brows together. Truly this is a most impertinent pupil!
'The Master of Ballantrae.' It _sounds_ like Sir Walter, and
yet--The professor hesitates and is lost.

"Scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command.

"Wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "Oh! you
_ignorant _man! Go buy that book at once. It will do you more good
and teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes."

She laughs gaily. It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of
way, that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good.

She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as
if thinking, but now looks up at him.

"If you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don't
you think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She
has come nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon
his arm.

"I am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and