One evening when I returned from a long walk, Esmerelda gave me a letter directed in the most fashionable style of ladies' handwriting. I was a good deal surprised at receiving a letter through such a source, especially as Esmerelda whispered me to secrecy. I had no time to break the seal, for callers were waiting; and when they left, Mr. Winthrop summoned me to the study for a review of the week's reading. This was a custom he had some time before instituted, and I was finding it increasingly interesting. He selected my course of reading, and a very strong bill of fare I was finding it, some of the passages straining my utmost power of brain to comprehend. He had, as yet, confined me chiefly to German literature, mainly Kant and Lessing, with a dip into Schiller now and then, he said, by way of relaxation. He seemed gratified at the interest I took in his efforts to develop my intellectual powers, and sometimes he sat chatting with me, after the lesson was ended, by the firelight, until we were summoned to dinner. His mind appeared like some rich storehouse where every article has its appointed place; and while it held many a treasure from foreign sources, its own equipment was equal to the best. I could not always follow him. He gave me credit, I believe, for much greater brain power than I possessed; but what I could not comprehend made me the more eager to overcome the impediment of ignorance and stupidity. In these hours in his own study, where very few, save myself, were permitted to enter, he laid aside all badinage and severe criticism. I blundered sadly, at times, over the meaning of some specially difficult passages; but he helped me through with a quiet patience that amazed me. I mentioned it one day to Mrs. Flaxman, expressing my surprise that he should so patiently endure my ignorance, and stupidity. "It is just like him. He has a world of patience with any one really trying to do good work. I think he begins to understand you better. He is prejudiced against our sex in the mass. He thinks we are more fond of pleasure than of anything else in the world; but if he once finds his mistake, his atonement is complete." "Why is he so prejudiced?" I asked, hoping Mrs. Flaxman would continue the story Thomas had begun. "He has had good reason. He is not one to rashly condemn one." "But is it not rash to misjudge the many for the wrong doing of the single individual? It does not prove all are alike." "Have you ever heard anything, Medoline?" She asked anxiously. "Merely a hint, but I have built many a story on that." "You must not trust servants or ignorant folks' gossip. I hope your Mill Road friends do not talk about your guardian." "They scarcely mention his name. Mrs. Blake certainly expressed surprise, a long time ago, when we gave those vegetables away, that such a thing should take place at Oaklands. I would not permit any one to speak unkindly of Mr. Winthrop in my hearing," I said, proudly.