how it was when I came, but I wanted so much to see my guardian, and
tell _him_ all about it, that I forgot to be nice to anybody. See?"

There is a little silence. The professor, who is looking as guilty
as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once,
waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come.

It doesn't come, however! When the mists clear away a little, he
finds that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs. Mulcahy is standing,
and is talking still to that good Irishwoman. It is a whispered talk
this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very
heart.

"I'm afraid he didn't _want_ me here," Perpetua is saying, in a low
distressed little voice--"I'm sorry I came now--but, you don't
_know_ how cruel Aunt Jane was to me, Mrs. Mulcahy, you don't
indeed! She--she said such unkind things about--about----" Perpetua
breaks down again--struggles with herself valiantly, and finally
bursts out crying. "I'm tired, I'm sleepy," sobs she miserably.

Need I say what follows? The professor, stung to the quick by those
forlorn sobs, lifts his eyes, and--behold! he sees Perpetua gathered
to the ample bosom of the formidable, kindly Mulcahy.

"Come wid me, me lamb," says that excellent woman. "Bad scran to the
one that made yer purty heart sore. Lave her to me now, Misther
Curzon, dear, an' I'll take a mother's care of her." (This in an
aside to the astounded professor.) "There now, alanna! Take courage
now! Sure 'tis to the right shop ye've come, anyway, for 'tis
daughthers I have meself, me dear--fine, sthrappin' girls as could