“Fra Lippo Lippi did that,” said Mr. Wake. “He used to skip over the wall almost every evening after dark. Then he’d come in late, and tiptoe through the corridors, carrying his shoes in his hands. Mr. Browning made a good story about it. Tell you, when you get down to it, there is _nothing_ new under the sun! . . . Jane, am I going to have to speak _sharply_ to you, about your conduct?” (He pretended I was holding Sam’s long hand) “You’d better be nice to me,” I said, and I was really almost peevish, “because I’ve always _tried_ to be nice to you, and I have a letter from my Miss Sheila, that’s awfully nice--” “It’s a _shame_,” said Sam quickly--and I think he was sorry he had teased me; he is almost always very gentle with me--and he patted my hand, and returned it to my lap with a great deal of funny ceremony. Then I ordered him off, and he wandered across the cloister and stood there smoking and watching us. And _then_ I read Mr. Wake the nice news. “Well, what, dear child?” he asked, as I got out the letter. “You _wait_,” I said. “I am--small person--quite a letter, isn’t it?” “Yes--the news is on the last page, I believe,” I answered. “She writes from front to back, and then down across the middle one. . . . Here ’tis. ‘I have a secret to tell you,’ I read, ‘and one that you must keep--’” “Ah, Eve!” broke in Mr. Wake, as he smiled down at me until all the little wrinkles stood out around his eyes. “Well, you’re _different_,” I said. He swelled. “_Adam!_” I said, and he told me I was a saucy minx, to go on, and I did. “‘This spring,’ Miss Sheila wrote, ‘will see me in Florence, but I don’t want Leslie to know I shall appear, for if she does I am sure she’ll want to go back with me. I think this winter is doing her good, and I want her to stick the entire time through.’ “Nice?” I said, as I folded up the letter which made crinkly, crackly noises as it went into the envelope, because it was written on such heavy paper. I had supposed Mr. Wake would think it _very_ nice, and therefore I was surprised to look at him, and see him moisten his lips, and then hear him say, “I don’t know--” “But, Mr. _Wake_!” I said--I was a good deal disappointed--“I thought you would _like_ meeting her--” (He turned, walked away a few steps and then came back) “I’m afraid,” said Mr. Wake, “that I am too old to meet a Fairy Godmother. No doubt--” (he was trying to play, but his tone was a little stiff) “she’d suggest picnicking in the moonlight--isn’t that the hour when Fairy Rings are most popular?--and that might make my shoulders stiff. Then--seriously, dear child--I am no good as a cavalier; I falter. Children and old ladies are the age for me now, and soon it will be middle-aged women, whom I shall think of as children. So I am afraid I’d best refuse your alluring offer.” “Well,” I said, and my voice was flat because I felt so, “you know you don’t have to meet her; Florence is big--”