rely set down my book or work, as it might be,
and adjusted myself to listen without speaking.

'Your French is pretty well, and your Italian; but you have no German.
Your music may be pretty good--I'm no judge--but your drawing might be
better--yes--yes. I believe there are accomplished ladies--finishing
governesses, they call them--who undertake more than any one teacher would
have professed in my time, and do very well. She can prepare you, and
next winter, then, you shall visit France and Italy, where you may be
accomplished as highly as you please.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You shall. It is nearly six months since Miss Ellerton left you--too long
without a teacher.'

Then followed an interval.

'Dr. Bryerly will ask you about that key, and what it opens; you show all
that to _him_, and no one else.'

'But,' I said, for I had a great terror of disobeying him in ever so minute
a matter, 'you will then be absent, sir--how am I to find the key?'

He smiled on me suddenly--a bright but wintry smile--it seldom came, and
was very transitory, and kindly though mysterious.

'True, child; I'm glad you are so wise; _that_, you will find, I have
provided for, and you shall know exactly where to look. You have remarked
how solitarily I live. You fancy, perhaps, I have not got a friend, and
you are nearly right--_nearly_, but not altogether. I have a very sure
friend--_one_--a friend whom I once misunderstood, but now appreciate.'

I wondered silently whether it could be Uncle Silas.

'He'll make me a call, some day soon; I'm not quite sure when. I won't tell
you his name--you'll hear that soon enough, and I don't want it talked of;
and I must make a little journey with him. You'll not be afraid of being
left alone for a time?'

'And have you promised, sir?' I answered, with another question, my
curiosity and anxiety overcoming my awe. He took my questioning very
good-humouredly.

'Well--_promise_?--no, child; but I'm under condition; he's not to be
denied. I must make the excursion with him the moment he calls. I have no
choice; but, on the whole, I rather like it--remember, I say, I rather
_like_ it.'

And he smiled again, with the same meaning, that was at once stern and sad.
The exact purport of these sentences remained fixed in my mind, so that
even at this distance of time I am quite sure of them.

A person quite unacquainted with my father's habitually abrupt and odd way
of talking, would have fancied that he