had been with them all the while, which gives great courage to good girls,
while, I am told, it shuts the mouths of those who are sly. But then it
must be remembered that there are as great differences in mothers as in
girls. And besides, I believe wise girls have an instinct about men that
all the experience of other men cannot overtake. But yet again, there are
many girls foolish enough to mistake a mere impulse for instinct, and
vanity for insight.

As Wynnie spoke, she turned and went back to the house to fetch some of her
work. Now, had she been going a message for me, she would have gone like
the wind; but on this occasion she stepped along in a stately manner, far
from devoid of grace, but equally free from frolic or eagerness. And I
could not help noting as well that Mr. Percivale's eyes followed her. What
I felt or fancied is of no consequence to anybody. I do not think, even if
I were writing an autobiography, I should be forced to tell _all_ about
myself. But an autobiography is further from my fancy, however much I may
have trenched upon its limits, than any other form of literature with which
I am acquainted.

She was not long in returning, however, though she came back with the same
dignified motion.

"There is nothing really worth either showing or concealing," she said to
Mr. Percivale, as she handed him the portfolio, to help himself, as it
were. She then turned away, as if a little feeling of shyness had come over
her, and began to look for something to do about Connie. I could see that,
although she had hitherto been almost indifferent about the merit of her
drawings, she had a new-born wish that they might not appear altogether
contemptible in the eyes of Mr. Percivale. And I saw, too, that Connie's
wide eyes were taking in everything. It was wonderful how Connie's