“Never mind, little one; you have not offended me by speaking your mind out; don’t be afraid. But you don’t know, you cannot guess--how should a child like you guess?--how many or how deep a man’s cares may be while he is obliged to bear a brave front to the world. I think you would be sorry for me if you knew them.” “I am sorry even without knowing them,” I said softly. He bent down over me and looked into my eyes for a few moments. Then he raised his head, and laughed lightly. “You are a fraud. Great gray eyes ought to be passionate, and yours are as cold as a lake on a still day. I believe you are an Undine! You have no soul.” “Oh, Mr. Rayner!” I said mournfully, and I turned slowly to the piano to put away the music. “Never mind; I will do that,” said he, in his usual tone. “I have kept you up long enough. Good-night, Undine.” I was almost afraid he would again want to kiss me, and, after offending him once, I should not have dared to refuse. So I shook hands as hastily as I could, took my candle, and ran upstairs. I was very angry with myself for having been cold and unsympathetic--I had not meant to be so at all. But the fact was I had been thinking the whole evening of Mr. Laurence Reade. CHAPTER XII. I slackened my pace when I got to the top of the first flight of stairs, and walked softly through the corridor where the nursery was, for fear of waking Mona; and, as I went slowly along the passage leading to the turret stairs, I began to think of what Mr. Rayner had called me, and wondered what he meant by saying I had no soul. “It wasn’t because I am not sorry for him, for he must have seen that I am,” thought I. “I suppose I don’t show my sympathy in the right way; but I could not very well say more about it without being disrespectful. And I must not forget that Mr. Rayner is not only much older than I, but also my employer.” And so I crept up the turret stairs with my candle, and opened the door of my room.