So she lay silently gazing at his dark, stern profile under her long lashes until he turned suddenly and caught the curious gaze of the large liquid blue eyes. He smiled slightly as they fell before his. “You have not said whether I am to stay or go,” he said. Aline hesitated a moment, then answered in a low, half-angry voice: “Stay.” “Thanks. I was afraid you would send me away,” he said. “I would, but--but I am afraid to stay here alone,” she replied with spirit. Something like anger flashed into his dark face a moment, but was quickly dispelled by the thought, “Why be angry with a willful child whom I have unavoidably offended?” “You are very frank. I quite understand that I am retained in your presence merely in the character of a watch-dog,” he replied, with some _hauteur_. “But while I _am_ here, pray make me of service if possible. Can I do anything for you--talk to you--read to you?” She caught eagerly at the last suggestion. “Yes, you may read to me. I do not like to talk to you. You make me angry when I talk to you,” she said. “You are very flattering, Miss Rodney. However, I do not forget that you are sick. We pardon the discourtesies of invalids,” he said, calmly, going over to a little stand littered with volumes bound prettily in blue and gold. “What is your preference--prose or poetry?” he inquired, carelessly turning them over. “Poetry,” she replied. “Naturally--being young,” he muttered, half to himself. “Do you mean to say that I shall not love poetry when I grow old--like you?” she asked, purposely adding the sting of the last words. But he faced around toward her with an expression of the most palpable amusement. “Do I appear very old in your eyes, Miss Rodney?” he inquired. “‘As old as the hills’--you are, aren’t you, sir?” she replied, with malice prepense. “I was three-and-thirty yesterday, my frank lady,” he answered, coolly. “As for you, judging from your words and manner, I should guess that you are about ten years old.” The delicate shaft of sarcasm went home. Aline knew that she deserved it, and that she had been behaving rudely to the courteous gentleman under whose roof she was. But she was by no means prepared to acknowledge her fault. She was bitterly angry with him, because he had refused to communicate with her friends. “Please go on with the poetry,” she said, assuming an air of dignity, and taking no notice of his last words. He opened the book he was holding, and commenced to read a poem quite at random: “How many years will it be, I wonder. And how will their slow length pass, Till I shall find rest in silence, under The trees and the waving grass? “Many there be in the world who love it, Who cling to its trifles and toys; But I could never find aught to covet Among its vanishing joys.