I went on asking her what she had read, and I own that I dare not give the list. But her frank young mind had absorbed no evil, and when I asked her how she liked one famous peccant hero, she answered quite simply-- 'I liked him very much--part of the book. And when he did wrong things, I was always wanting to go to him, and tell him not to be so wicked and silly; and then, oh! I was so glad when he reformed and married Sophia.' 'But he wasn't good enough for her.' 'Ah, but then he was a man!' Her tone implied '_only_ a man.' 'Then you think women are better than men?' 'I think they ought to be.' 'Why?' 'Well, men have to work, and women have only to be good.' I was surprised at this answer. 'That is not true always. Your mother is a very good woman, and has had to work very hard indeed.' 'But mamma's an exception; she says so. And she says it's very hard to work as she does, and be good too.' I could scarcely help laughing, though it was pretty to see how innocently the young girl had taken the querulous speech. 'Well, and then I'm a man, and I don't have to work.' 'Perhaps that's why you're so good.' I was so utterly astonished at this naive speech that I had nothing to say. The blood rushed to the girl's face; she was afraid she had been rude. 'How do you know that I am good, Babiole?' I asked gently. But this was taxing her penetration too much. 'I don't know,' she answered shyly. 'Why do you think people are better when they don't work?' She looked at me, and was reassured that I was not offended. 'Well, sometimes when mamma has been working very hard--not now, you know; but it used to be like that--she used to say things that hurt me, and made me want to cry. And then I used to look at her poor tired face and say to myself, "It's the hard work and not mamma that says those things;" and then, of course, I did not mind. And when you have once had to work too hard, you never get over it as you do over other things.' 'What other things?' 'Oh--fancies and--and things like that.' 'Love troubles?' She looked up at me with a shy, sideways glance that was full of the most perfectly unconscious witchery. 'Yes, mamma says they're nonsense.' 'She liked nonsense, too, once.' Babiole looked up at me with the delight of a common perception. 'Yes, I've often thought that. And then all men are not like----' She stopped short. 'Papa?' She shook her head. 'One mustn't say that. One must make allowances for clever people, mamma says.' 'You will be clever, too, some day, if you go on reading and thinking about what you read.' 'No, I don't want to be clever; it makes people so selfish. But,' with a sigh, 'I wish I knew something, and could play and sing and read all those books that are not English.' 'Shall I teach you French?' 'Will you? Oh, Mr. Maude!'