Miss Pinshon bade me come with her to the room she and my aunt
had agreed should be the schoolroom. It was the book room of
the house, though it had hardly books enough to be called a
library. It had been the study or private room of my
grandfather; there was a leather-covered table with an old
bronze standish; some plain book-cases; a large escritoire; a
terrestrial globe; a thermometer and barometer; and the rest
of the furniture was an abundance of chintz-covered chairs and
lounges. These were very easy and pleasant for use; and long
windows opening on the verandah looked off among the evergreen
oaks and their floating grey drapery; the light in the room
and the whole aspect of it was agreeable. If Miss Pinshon had
not been there! But she was there, with a terrible air of
business; setting one or two chairs in certain positions by a
window, and handling one or two books on the table. I stood
meek and helpless, expectant.

"Have you read any history, Daisy?"

I said no; then I said yes, I had; a little.

"What?"

"A little of the history of England last summer."

"Not of your own country?"

"No, ma'am."