nges to
one of light anger. The white brow contracts. "And certainly she could
never make one happy and comfortable. Well--what else?"

"She will look after----"

"I told you I don't care about Aunt Jane. Tell me what you can do----"

"See that your fortune is not----"

"I don't care about my fortune either," with a little gesture. "But I
_do_ care about my happiness. Will you see to _that_?"

"Of course," says the professor gravely.

"Then you will take me away from Aunt Jane!" The small vivacious face is
now all aglow. "I am not happy with Aunt Jane. I"--clasping her hands,
and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"I _hate_ Aunt
Jane. She says things about poor papa that----_Oh!_ how I hate her!"

"But--you shouldn't--you really should not. I feel certain you ought
not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment.

"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth.
"I _do_ though, for all that! I"--pausing, and regarding him with a
somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am not going to
stay here much longer!"

"_What?_" says the professor aghast. "But my dear----Miss Wynter, I'm
afraid you _must_."

"Why? What is she to me?"

"Your aunt."

"That's nothing--nothing at all--even a _guardian_ is better than that.
And you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and pressing five
soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, "why
can't _you_ take me away?"

_"I!"_

"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the
small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them now that
might well be termed coaxing. "_Do_," says she.

"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. He
almost _shakes_ off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and
agitation. Has she no common-sense--no knowledge of the things that be?

She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely.

"Impossible to leave Aunt Jane?" questions she. It is evident she has
not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well,"
defiantly, "we shall see!"

"_Why_ don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professor distractedly.
He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as he did an hour ago.

"Because," lucidly, "she _is_ Aunt Jane. If she were _your_ Aunt Jane
you would know."

"But my dear----"

"I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't call
me 'my dear.' A