"I’m sure," Jane-Anne interrupted eagerly, "if it’s to learn to be a servant that I’ve got to go back, Aunt could teach me just as well—better, I think. She can do everything they do there, and do it nicer than the people that teaches us. She is a good servant, isn’t she, sir?" "Your aunt is a quite admirable person," Mr. Wycherly said gravely, "and most accomplished in every household art; but from what she told me I gathered that this school is a very good one, and that it was a great help to her to have got you into it." Jane-Anne’s eager face blanched. "Please, sir," she whispered, "if I promise to eat very little and work very hard would you let me stay with you and aunt?" She clasped her hands and leant forward, devouring Mr. Wycherly’s face with her great tragic eyes. "Aunt would be very angry if she knew I’d spoken to you; but you could stop me going if you liked, and if I go back, I shall die, I know I shall." "What is it you dislike so much?" Mr. Wycherly asked. "All of it, except the lessons, they are lovelly. I can’t seem to do it; my back aches so, and it’s so cold." "But it won’t be cold this time. Summer is almost here." "It isn’t the weather, it’s my heart," cried Jane-Anne; "it’s that that’s so cold. Nobody cares much about me, they think me odd and funny. Do you think me odd and funny, sir?" Mr. Wycherly certainly did, but he laid one of his beautiful old hands on Jane-Anne’s, saying gently, "I think that as yet you are not very strong, and I am quite sure that it is bad for you to worry about going back. You can’t possibly go back for another fortnight, your aunt said so, and—who knows——?" Mr. Wycherly had not intended to say this last at all. It was most unwise and misleading, but the brown eyes held his and compelled him to give them comfort. He tried to patch up his mistake by saying, in a matter of fact tone: "Suppose Montagu or Edmund begged me not to send him back to school, what should I do? Because, you see, I know that school is the best place for them—though for me the sun sets and never rises till they come back. We all have to do things we don’t like." "But they like school—they told me so." "You probably would like it, too, if you made up your mind to do so." "I’ve tried so hard, sir. I really have. Your young gentlemen don’t have to wear horrid clothes at their school; you don’t know how dismal it is. I believe if I might live here with you and aunt I’d never have the creppits any more; I’d be so warm and happy in my heart." "Well, you must keep on being warm and happy, and get strong and merry—and then—we’ll see what can be done." Oh, weak, soft-hearted Mr. Wycherly! Against his will, against his better judgment, the words slipped out.