"'Arrah! git out wid ye!' says she, 'ye scamp o' the world. 'Tis a
_ward _the masther has taken an' nothin' more.'

"I said I thought it was quite enough, and asked if you had taken it
badly, and what the doctor thought of you. But she wouldn't listen
to me.

"'Look here, Misther Hardinge,' said she. 'I've come to the
conclusion that wards is bad for the professor. I haven't seen the
young lady, I confess, but I'm cock-sure that she's got the divil's
own temper!'" Hardinge pauses, and turns to the professor--"Has
she?" says he.

"N--o," says the professor--a little frowning lovely crimson face
rises before him--and then a laughing one. "No," says he more
boldly, "she is a little impulsive, perhaps, but----"

"Just so. Just so," says Mr. Hardinge pleasantly, and then, after a
kindly survey of his companion's features, "She is rather a trouble
to you, old man, isn't she?"

"She? No," says the professor again, more quickly this time. "It is
only this--she doesn't seem to get on with the aunt to whom her poor
father sent her--he is dead--and I have to look out for some one
else to take care of her, until she comes of age."

"I see. I should think you would have to hurry up a bit," says Mr.
Hardinge, taking his cigar from his lips, and letting the smoke curl
upwards slowly, thoughtfully. "Impulsive people have a trick of