"If that means some one who knows about birds and things, yes—he is," answered I, with a shake of my head—a foolish habit which I know I had when I wanted to be emphatic. "Probably a much better naturalist than people who learn only from books. He taught me all I know," added I, proudly, and not for a moment perceiving the construction that might be put upon this remark. "I used to be out here with him whole days when I was a child, and we both of us got into no end of scrapes for 'doing what we ought not to do, and leaving undone what we had to do.' Oh, but it was fun!" added I, with a sigh.
My companion laughed. "Delightful, I am sure," said he; "and it did you a great deal more good than sticking to books, I'll be bound."
He looked at me straight as he said this, as though he were taking my measure.
"I did stick to my books, too," cried I, quickly, anxious that he should not think me an ignoramus. "Mother was always very particular about that."
"Yes, yes, of course," said he. And then he added, with what I fancied was a twinkle of fun in his eye, "'The Fair Maid of Perth' is not every young lady's choice."
I blushed. Perhaps, after all, he did not think me ridiculous for reading novels. I was half angry, half ashamed, but it never occurred to me to wonder why I should care what this new acquaintance said or thought.
"We didn't read novels in lesson-time," said I, stiffly; "we didn't read many novels at all. Father and mother don't hold with novels for girls, and mother don't hold with poetry either, but father likes Milton and Shakespeare."
"I dare say they are quite right," said my companion. "But you are not of the same mind I suppose?"
"No," answered I, boldly, determined to be honest. "I think Sir Walter Scott's novels are lovely; and I like poetry—all that I can understand."
Mr. Harrod laughed. "I don't think I should have been willing to admit there was anything I couldn't understand when I was your age," he said.