shoulders. Perpetua makes him a little bow, and follows the
professor out of the conservatory.

"If you are tired," says the professor, somewhat curtly, and without
looking at her, "I should think the best thing you could do would be
to go to bed!"

This astounding advice receives but little favor at Miss Wynter's
hands.

"I am tired of your brother," says she promptly. "He is as tiresome
a creation as I know--but not of your sister's party; and--I'm too
old to be sent to bed, even by a _Guardian!!"_ She puts a very big
capital to the last word.

"I don't want to send you to bed," says the professor simply.
"Though I think little girls like you----"

"I am not a little girl," indignantly.

"Certainly you are not a big one," says he. It is an untimely
remark. Miss Wynter's hitherto ill-subdued anger now bursts into
flame.

"I can't help it if I'm not big," cries she. "It isn't my fault. I
can't help it either that papa sent me to you. _I_ didn't want to go
to you. It wasn't my fault that I was thrown upon your hands.
And--and"--her voice begins to tremble--"it isn't my fault either
that you _hate_ me."