bud and break forth into all manner of quaint fancies--their
freshness and originality used to charm me.

I think there is no interest in life compared to knowing people
--finding them out, their tastes, character, and so forth. I had an
inquisitive delight, I called it thirst, for human knowledge, in
drawing out a stranger; no traveler exploring unknown tracts of
country ever pursued his researches with greater zeal and interest.
Reserve only attracts me.

Impulsive people, who let out their feelings the first moment, do
not interest me half so much as silent folk. I like to sit down
before an enclosed citadel and besiege it; with such ramparts of
defense there must be precious store in the heart of the city, some
hidden jewels, perhaps; at least, so I argue with myself.

But, happy as I was with Miss Lucas and Flurry, five o'clock no
sooner struck than I was flying down the oak staircase, with Flurry
peeping at me between the balustrades, and waving a mite of a hand in
token of adieu; for was I not going home to mother and Dot? Oh, the
dear, bright home scene that always awaited me! I wonder if Carrie
loved it as I did! The homely, sunny little parlors; the cozy tea
table, over which old Martha would be hovering with careful face and
hands; mother in her low chair by the garden window; Uncle Geoffrey
with his books and papers at the little round table; Dot and Jack
hidden in some corner, out of which Dot would come stumping on his
poor little crutches to kiss me, and ask after his little friend
Flurry.

"Here comes our Dame Bustle," Uncle Geoffrey would say. It was his