old, is called "Boy" officially, and Timothy, Jr., in the family records,
and--like Joy--wasn't in the least afraid of me, after five minutes'
acquaintance.

Boy led me down to the others, but dinner was nearly over before I felt at
ease. I'm not used to having at my back a statuesque servant--though this
one was not too statuesque to be surprised by my appearance almost out of
decorum. And I couldn't help knowing that every one wanted to look at me
all the time, which was delicious, but embarrassing. I blushed and gave
stupid answers when addressed, and even feared that I might show myself at
fault in the etiquette of a city table. It was strange to have forks in so
many cases where I've always used spoons. And, though of course I knew
what the finger bowls were, I wasn't quite sure how to use them.

No one was more puzzled by my appearance than Uncle Timothy himself. As he
looked at me--and this he did through most of the meal--certain long gray
hairs in his eyebrows seemed to wave up and down, as I had often noticed
with the frightened curiosity of a child, like the questioning antennae of
an insect.

"And what is the school work now?" he asked when the dessert came. "The
last time I had the very real pleasure of seeing you, it was--perhaps
animalculae?"

"The cell," I replied, relieved at the introduction of a topic that I
could talk about, "and the cell wall. Protoplasmic movements, you know,
and unicellular plants and animals. I'd been making sketches that day of
the common amoeba of standing water."

"I am not familiar with the--ah--with the amoeba; but doubtless its habits