He was no doubt a worthy man. But Betty was only a child, and too easily
enamoured of people she liked. It was strange how deep an impression
the man's words had made on her. Athens and Greece filled her waking
moments. Statues and temples--photographs and books of travel loaded
the school-room shelves. The house reeked with Greek learning. Poor Miss
Stone found herself drifting into archaeology; and an exhaustive study
of Greek literature, Greek life, Greek art filled her days. The
theory of Betty Harris's education had been elaborately worked out by
specialists from earliest babyhood. Certain studies, rigidly prescribed,
were to be followed whether she liked them or not--but outside these
lines, subjects were to be taken up when she showed an interest in them.
There could be no question that the time for the study of Greek history
and Greek civilisation had come. Miss Stone laboured early and
late. Instruction from the university down the lake was pressed into
service.... But out of it all the child seemed, by some kind of precious
alchemy, to extract only the best, the vital heart of it.

The instructor in Greek marvelled a little. "She is only a child," he
reported to the head of the department, "and the family are American of
the newest type--you know, the Philip Harrises?"

The professor nodded. "I know--hide and hoof a generation back."

The instructor assented. "But the child is uncanny. She knows more about
Greek than--"

"Than _I_ do, I suppose." The professor smiled indulgently. "She
wouldn't have to know much for that."

"It isn't so much what she _knows_. She has a kind of _feeling_ for