"I don't care about my fortune either," with a little petulant 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 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.' Aunt 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 were you going to tell me about him?" asks the professor gently.