"But isn't it right to be"—what word would express it?—"happy, comfortable? For why should you try to make anyone happy if it was wrong?"
"It is not wrong."
The sky was very blue now, and the snow began to have an ethereal look. Cato came out to shovel and clear away some paths. He struck the young hemlocks and firs with a stick and beat the snow out of them.
"The snow settles in the branches and sometimes freezes and that kills a little place," said Uncle Winthrop in answer to the questioning eyes.
They walked back to the table, with his arm over her shoulder.
"I am done my writing for to-day," he began. "I wonder if you would mind answering a few questions?"
"Oh, no—if I knew the answers," smilingly.
"Then tell me first of all how far you went in Latin. This is a grammar."
She turned some leaves. "I didn't know it very well," skimming over the pages. "It was not like this book, and"—hanging her head a little—"I did not like it—that and the sums."
"Who put you to studying it?"