“I wish you would make me know them, then!” “There are books, and you can read, miss!” “Ah, but I can't read as you read! I understand that much! I was born where there ain't any books. I can shoot and fish and run and ride and swim, and all that kind of thing. I never had to fight. I think I could shoe a horse, if any one would give me a lesson or two.” “I will, with pleasure, miss.” “Oh, thank you. That will be jolly! But how is it you can do everything?” “I can only do one or two things. I can shoe a horse, but I never had the chance of riding one.” “Teach me to shoe Miss Brown, and I will teach you to ride her. How is your hand?” “Quite well, thank you.” “I would rather learn to read, though--the right way, I mean--the way that makes one book talk to another.” “That would be better than shoeing Miss Brown; but I will teach you both, if you care to learn.” “Thank you indeed! When shall we begin?” “When you please.” “Now?” “I cannot before six o'clock. I must do first what I am paid to do!--What kind of reading do you like best?” “I don't know any best. I used to read the papers to papa, but now I don't even do that. I hope I never may.” “Where do you live, miss, when you're at home?” asked Richard, all the time busy with the quarto. “Don't you know?” “I don't even know who you are, miss!” “I am Barbara Wylder. I live at Wylder Hall, a few miles from here.--I don't know the distance exactly, because I always go across country: that way reminds me a little of home. My father was the third son, and never expected to have the Hall. He went out to New Zealand, and married my mother, and made a fortune--at least people say so: he never tells me anything. They don't care much for me: I'm not a boy!” “Have you any brothers?” “I have one,” she answered sadly. “I had two, but my mother's favourite is gone, and my father's is left, and mamma can't get over it. They were twins, but they did not love each other. How could they? My father and mother don't love each other, so each loved one of the twins and hated the other.” She mentioned the dismal fact with a strange nonchalance--as if the thing could no more be helped, and needed no more be wondered at, than a rainy day. Yet the sigh she gave indicated trouble because of it. Richard held his peace, rather astonished, both that a lady should talk to him in such an easy way, and that she should tell him the saddest family secrets. But she seemed quite unaware of doing anything strange, and after a brief pause resumed.