Her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still _very_ sweet. She is quite small--a _little_ girl--and clad in deep mourning. There is something pathetic about the dense black surrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure. Her eyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety in their hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating as if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh. She has raised both her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them clasped against her breast. The pretty fingers are covered with costly rings. Altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with her brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown. Dainty-sweet she looks, "Sweet as is the bramble-flower." "Yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means certain of the fact. He is so vague about it, indeed, that "some one's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam. "Are you _sure_?" says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty sort of little laugh. It rings through the room, this laugh, and has the effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time. She checks herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad things of her. She sighs softly. "Have you come to see me or Aunt Jane?" asks she; "because Aunt Jane is out--_I'm glad to say_"--this last pianissimo. "To see you," says the professor absently. He is thinking! He has taken her hand, and held it, and dropped it again, all in a state of high bewilderment. Is _this_ the big, strong, noisy girl of his imaginings? The bouncing creature with untidy hair, and her clothes pitchforked on to her? "Well--I hoped so," says she, a little wistfully as it seems to him, every trace of late sauciness now gone, and with it the sudden shyness. After many days the professor grows accustomed to these sudden transitions that are so puzzling yet so enchanting, these rapid, inconsequent, but always lovely changes "From grave to gay, from lively to severe." "Won't you sit down?" says his small hostess gently, touching a chair near her with her slim fingers. "Thank you," says the professor, and then stops short. "You are----" "Your ward," says she, ever so gently still, yet emphatically. It is plain that she is now on her very _best_ behavior. She smiles up at him in a very encouraging way. "And you are my guardian, aren't you?"