I found the little fellow standing in the passage, and being addressed by one of the men in livery, who stood before him, nearly bent double from extreme respectfulness, with his hands hanging in front of him like the fins of a fish. “His High Excellency,” this respectful man was saying, “is in his Study, y’reince!” (He didn’t pronounce this quite so well as the Chancellor.) Thither Bruno trotted, and I thought it well to follow him. The Warden, a tall dignified man with a grave but very pleasant face, was seated before a writing-table, which was covered with papers, and holding on his knee one of the sweetest and loveliest little maidens it has ever been my lot to see. She looked four or five years older than Bruno, but she had the same rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and the same wealth of curly brown hair. Her eager smiling face was turned upwards towards her father’s, and it was a pretty sight to see the mutual love with which the two faces—one in the Spring of Life, the other in its late Autumn—were gazing on each other. “No, you’ve never seen him,” the old man was saying: “you couldn’t, you know, he’s been away so long—traveling from land to land, and seeking for health, more years than you’ve been alive, little Sylvie!” Here Bruno climbed upon his other knee, and a good deal of kissing, on a rather complicated system, was the result. “He only came back last night,” said the Warden, when the kissing was over: “he’s been traveling post-haste, for the last thousand miles or so, in order to be here on Sylvie’s birthday. But he’s a very early riser, and I dare say he’s in the Library already. Come with me and see him. He’s always kind to children. You’ll be sure to like him.” “Has the Other Professor come too?” Bruno asked in an awe-struck voice. “Yes, they arrived together. The Other Professor is—well, you won’t like him quite so much, perhaps. He’s a little more _dreamy_, you know.” “I wiss _Sylvie_ was a little more dreamy,” said Bruno. “What _do_ you mean, Bruno?” said Sylvie. Bruno went on addressing his father. “She says she _ca’n’t_, oo know. But I thinks it isn’t _ca’n’t_, it’s _wo’n’t_.” “Says she _ca’n’t_ dream!” the puzzled Warden repeated. “She _do_ say it,” Bruno persisted. “When I says to her ‘Let’s stop lessons!’, she says ‘Oh, I ca’n’t _dream_ of letting oo stop yet!’” “He always wants to stop lessons,” Sylvie explained, “five minutes after we begin!” “Five minutes’ lessons a day!” said the Warden. “You won’t learn much at _that_ rate, little man!” “That’s just what Sylvie says,” Bruno rejoined. “She says I _wo’n’t_ learn my lessons. And I tells her, over and over, I _ca’n’t_ learn ’em. And what doos oo think she says? She says ‘It isn’t _ca’n’t_, it’s _wo’n’t_!’”