"No; Mr. Avery came just afterward. I was reading to him at that time." "No one but you?" "No one. Before that he had had Mr. Blatchford read to him sometimes, but--poor Cousin Wallace!--he made a terrible mistake in reading to Father once. Father discovered it before it was too late; and he never let Cousin Wallace know. He pretends to trust Cousin Wallace now with reading some things; but he always has Mr. Avery or me go over them with him afterward." "The papers must have been a good deal for a girl of eighteen." "At that time, you mean? They were; but Father dared trust no one else." "Mr. Avery handles those matters now for your father?" "The continuation of what was going on then? Yes; he took them up at the time I was hurt and so has kept on looking after them; for there has been plenty for me to do without that; and those things have all been more or less settled now. They have worked themselves out as things do, though they seemed almost unsolvable at the time. One thing that helped in their solution was that Father was able, that time, to urge what was just, as well as what was advisable." "You mean that in the final settlement of them no one suffered?" "No one, I think--except, of course, poor Mr. Latron; and that was a private matter not connected in any direct way with the questions at issue. Why do you ask all this, Mr. Eaton?" "I was merely interested in you--in what your work has been with your father, and what it is," he answered quietly. His step had slowed, and she, unconsciously, had delayed with him. Now she realized that his manner toward her had changed from what it had been a few minutes before; he had been strongly moved and drawn toward her then, ready to confide in her; now he showed only his usual quiet reserve--polite, casual, unreadable. She halted and faced him, abruptly, chilled with disappointment. "Mr. Eaton," she demanded, "a few minutes ago you were going to tell me something about yourself; you seemed almost ready to speak; now--" "Now I am not, you mean?" "Yes; what has changed you? Is it something I have said?" He seemed to reflect. "Are you sure that anything has changed me? I think you were mistaken. You asked if I could not tell you more about myself; I said I wished I could, and that perhaps I might. I meant some time in the future; and I still hope I may--some time." His look and tone convinced her; for she could recall nothing he had asked about herself or that she had replied to, which could have made any change in him. She studied him an instant more, fighting her disappointment and the feeling of having been rebuffed.