Wynter--he has died without a penny. He was bound to do that, as he
always lived without one. _Poor_ old Wynter!"-- as if a little
ashamed of himself. "I don't see how I can afford to put her out to
nurse." He pulls himself up with a start. "To nurse! a girl of
seventeen! She'll want to be going out to balls and things--at her
age."

As if smitten to the earth by this last awful idea, he picks his
glasses out of the sugar and goes back to the letter.

"You will find her the dearest girl. Most loving, and
tender-hearted; and full of life and spirits."

"Good heavens!" says the professor. He puts down the letter again,
and begins to pace the room. "'Life and spirits.' A sort of young
kangaroo, no doubt. What will the landlady say? I shall leave these
rooms"--with a fond and lingering gaze round the dingy old apartment
that hasn't an article in it worth ten sous--"and take a small
house--somewhere--and-- But--er---- It won't be respectable, I think.
I--I've heard things said about--er--things like that. It's no good
in _looking_ an old fogey, if you aren't one; it's no earthly
use,"--standing before a glass and ruefully examining his
countenance--"in looking fifty, if you are only thirty-four. It will
be a scandal," says the professor mournfully. "They'll cut _her_,
and they'll cut me, and--what the _deuce_ did Wynter mean by leaving
me his daughter? A real live girl of seventeen! It'll be the death
of me," says the professor, mopping his brow.
"What"--wrathfully--"that determined spendthrift meant, by
flinging his family on _my_ shoulders, I---- Oh! _Poor_ old Wynter!"