unt Jane calls me that when she is going to say something
horrid to me. Papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears rush to her dark
eyes.

"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears
raising terror in his soul.

"You knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously.

"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me, when--when I was
younger. I was very fond of him."

"He was good to everyone," says Miss Wynter, staring hard at the
professor. It is occurring to her that this grave sedate man with his
glasses could never have been younger. He must always have been older
than the gay, handsome, _debonnaire_ father, who had been so dear to
her.

"What are you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor gently.

"Only what he used to call me--_Doatie_! I suppose," wistfully, "you
couldn't call me that?"

"I am afraid not," says the professor, coloring even deeper.

"I'm sorry," says she, her young mouth taking a sorrowful curve. "But
don't call me Miss Wynter, at all events, or 'my dear.' I do so want
someone to call me by my Christian name," says the poor child sadly.

"Perpetua--is it not?" says the professor, ever so kindly.

"No--'Pet,'" corrects she. "It's shorter, you know, and far easier to
say."

"Oh!" says the professor. To him it seems very difficult to say. Is it
possible she is going to ask him to call her by that familiar--almost
affectionate--name? The girl must be mad.

"Yes--much easier," says Perpetua; "you will find that out, after a bit,
when you have got used to calling me by it. Are you going now, Mr.
Curzon? Going _so soon_?"

"I have classes," says the professor.

"Students?" says she. "You teach them? I wish I was a student. I
shouldn't have been given over to Aunt Jane then, or," with a rather
wilful laugh, "if I had been I should have led her, oh!" rapturously,
"_such a life_!"

It suggests itself to the professor that she is quite capable of doing
that now, though she is _not_ of the sex male.

"Good-bye," says he, holding out his hand.

"You will come soon again?" demands she, laying her own in it.

"Next week--perhaps."

"Not till then? I shall be dead then," says she, with a rather mirthless
laugh this time. "Do you know that you and Aunt Jane are the only two
people in all London whom I know?"

"That is terrible," says he, quite sincerely.

"Yes. Isn't it?"

"But soon you will know people. Your aunt has acquaintances.
They--sur