considerable share in her regard or esteem. Little Fleda was
not in the least misanthropical; she gave her kindly
sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they could
possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her;
her spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there
was no affinity. She was in truth what her grandfather had
affirmed of her father, made of different stuff from the rest
of the world. There was no tincture of pride in all this;
there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could
merely have told you that she did not care to hear these
people talk, that she did not love to be with them; though she
_would_ have said so to no earthly creature but her grandfather,
if even to him.

"It must be pleasant," said Fleda, after looking for some
minutes thoughtfully into the fire, — "it must be a pleasant
thing to have a father and mother."

"Yes, dear!" said her grandfather, sighing, — "you have lost a
great deal! But there is your aunt Lucy — you are not
dependent altogether on me."

"Oh, grandpa!" said the little girl, laying one hand again
pleadingly on his knee; — "I didn't mean — I mean — I was
speaking in general — I wasn't thinking of myself in
particular."

"I know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in
his own, and moving it softly up and down on his knee. But the
action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern