Uncle Winthrop took her hand again—a small, slim hand; and his was slender as well. No real physical work had hardened it. He dropped into the high-backed chair beside the fireplace, and, putting his arm about her, drew her near to his side. Uncle Leverett would have taken her on his knee if he had been moved by an impulse like that, but he was used to children and grandchildren, and the bookish man was not.
"It is a great change to you," he said in his low tone, which had a fascination for her. "Was Miss Arabella—were there any young people in the old Lincolnshire house?"
"Oh, no. Miss Henrietta was very, very old, but then she had lost her mind and forgotten everybody. And Miss Arabella had snowy white hair and a sweet wrinkled face."
"Did you go to school?"
"There wasn't any school except a dame's school for very little children. I used to go twice a week to Father Langhorne and read and write and do sums."
"Then we will have to educate you. Do you think you would like to go to school?"
"I don't know." She hung her head a little, and it gave her a still more winsome expression. There was an indescribable charm about her.
"What did you read with this father?"
"We read 'Paradise Lost' and some French. And I had begun Latin."
Winthrop Adams gave a soft, surprised whistle. By the firelight he looked her over critically. Prodigies were not to his taste, and a girl prodigy would be an abhorrence. But her face had a sweet unconcern that reassured him.