was a baby, and his father
was--well!"--the old man checked himself--"his father is just dead." He
seemed about to add something more in regard to the deceased gentleman,
but forbore, glancing narrowly at Abbie, who looked only grave and
thoughtful.

"How old is he? A boy?" she asked, presently.

"Boyish in some ways, but must be twenty-five or six, and looks older. A
tall fellow, well made."

"He might still be a son of mine," said Abbie, with another dim smile,
and a sigh. "Perhaps it would do me no harm to consider him as such.
Would that satisfy you?"

"Just what I want!" exclaimed the professor heartily, and with
heightened color. "Something can be made of him, I think," he added;
"but a great deal depends on the sort of treatment he eats and sleeps
under. Well, you be motherly to him, Abbie. That's all I have to ask.
You will find good in it for yourself, too, as you say: more than you
think, very likely."

She sighed again, playing absently with her fingers upon her
dark-colored dress, and gazing out of the window. Professor Valeyon said
no more on the subject of Bressant, but spoke of Cornelia's proposed
trip, and the Fourth-of-July party, and Sophie's convalescence; and
finally took his straw-hat from the table upon which he had placed it,
and moved toward the door.

"Good-by, Abbie. Remember"--the old gentleman paused, with her hand in
his, and glowing upon her from beneath his bushy eyebrows; "remember you
have friends about you who don't need to be sought after. And another
thing, Abbie; if you should ever find that Time has the power to
liberate as well as to imprison you, don't forget that some wants may
exist a long while without finding expression, but that they do exist,
for all that!"

Perhaps it was the consciousness that he was using rather grandiloquent
language in the wording of this enigmatical little speech, that caused
the good professor to look so red and embarrassed. Abbie drew her hand
away, and laid her finger on her lip.

"Can you still say that?" asked she, with a sad kind of gleam in her
eyes and voice.

"More than ever--more than ever!" declared he, with emphatic
incoherence. And without more words he hurried down the steps, and in
another minute was rattling rapidly homeward, astonishing Dolly herself
by the speed which he encouraged her to put forth.

"It'll all work round," soliloquized he; "very good beginning this. If I
could have spoken more explicitly--but she'll be