The hero of my dreams did not rise. There was naught amiss or unusual in the manner of the introduction. I was “Miss Virginia” to men of my father’s age, as to youths and boys. I was used to see them get up from their seats to speak to me, as to a woman of treble my years. I looked, then, almost aghast at the man who let me walk up to him and offer my hand before he made any motion in recognition of the unimportant fact of my presence. His legs were crossed; his hands, the palms laid lightly together, were tucked between his legs. He pulled one out to meet mine, touched my fingers coldly, and tucked both hands back as before. “How do you do, Mr. Tayloe?” quoth I, primly respectful, as I had been trained to comport myself with strangers. He grunted something syllabic in response, and, chilled to the backbone of my being, I retreated to the shadow of my father’s broad shoulder. He passed his arm about me and stroked what he used to call my “Shetland pony mane.” He seldom praised any one of us openly, but he was a fond father, and he and the “tom-boy” were close comrades. “I hope you will not find this young lady stupid, Mr. Tayloe,” he went on, the strong, tender hand still smoothing the rebellious locks. “She is a bit flighty sometimes, but she has packed away a good deal of miscellaneous information in this curly pate. I hope she may become a steady student under your care. What she needs is application.” Receiving no answer beyond a variation of the grunt, the tutor staring all the time into the heart of the fire, the dear man went on to tell of books that had been read aloud in the family, as a supplementary course to what we had learned in school, referring to me now and then when he did nor recall title or subject. I fancy, now, that he did this to rid us both of the embarrassment of the first interview, and to draw out the taciturn stranger who was to guide my mind in future. Loyal as was my worshipful admiration of my father, I could not but feel, although I could not have formulated the thought, that the trend of talk was not tactful. Nevertheless, I glowed inwardly with indignation that the third person present never once took his eyes from the roaring fire, and that his face, round, fair, and almost boyish in contour, wore a slight smile, rather supercilious than amused, his brows knitting above the smile in a fashion I was to know more of in the next ten months.