make a dot. You
don't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished
to keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that
papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!"
Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. At
any rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any
gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like
to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some
strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might
think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been
principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you
must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry,
and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.
That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was
very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really
as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When
did YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know
how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the
convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do
anything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly
taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left
directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off
that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not
to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.
In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I
practise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish
very much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should
hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's
what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall
never have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the
squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes."

Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down
to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white
hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child
good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said;
"give pleasure to your father."

"I think that's what I live for,"