"Children can't have just what they like in this world," was Elizabeth's rejoinder.
"Nor grown people either," was Chilian's softening comment. Then he changed the subject. He had seen Cousin Giles, who proposed to pay them a visit, coming on some Saturday.
"Have you any lesson to learn?" he asked of Cynthia. "If so, bring your book and come to my room."
"Oh, thank you!" Her face was radiant with delight.
Where had she left her book? Dame Wilby had told her to take it home and study. Surely she had brought it—oh, yes! she had put it just inside the gate under the great clump of ribbon grass. If only Cousin Elizabeth's sharp eyes had not seen it. But there it was, safe enough.
She was delighted to go to Cousin Chilian's room, though she never presumed. She seemed to have an innate sort of delicacy that he wondered at.
The spelling was soon mastered. It was the rather unusual words that puzzled her. Then they attacked the tables and he practised her in making figures. Like most children left to themselves, she printed instead of writing.
"Oh!" she cried with a wistful yet joyous emphasis, "I wish I could come to school to you. And I'd like to be the only scholar."
"But you ought to be with little girls."
"I don't like them very much."