The mimicry is perfect. The professor, after a faint struggle with
his dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together.

_"'Our'_ time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says Miss
Wynter.

"Well, so I am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly.

"No, you're not," says she. _"I_ know better than that, I" patting
his arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. I can
see _at once,_ that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa.
In fact you may be younger. I am perfectly certain you are not more
than fifty."

The professor says nothing. He is staring at her. He is beginning to
feel a little forlorn. He has forgotten youth for many days, has
youth in revenge forgotten him?

"That is taking off a clear hundred at once," says she lightly. "No
small account." Here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quickly
at him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because she
goes on hurriedly. "Oh! and what is age after all? I wish _I_ were
old, and then I should be able to get away from Aunt
Jane--without--without any _trouble."_

"I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor
gravely.

"I _hate_ the place," cries she with a frown. "I shan't be able to
stay here. Oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?"