She tied up the packet, and held it in her hand, meditating over it. She half felt as if, in opening it, she had violated a confidence.
"They are Shirley's, you see," said Henry carelessly.
"Did you give them to Mr. Moore? She wrote them with Mrs. Pryor, I suppose?"
"She wrote them in my schoolroom at Sympson Grove, when she lived with us there. Mr. Moore taught her French; it is his native language."
"I know. Was she a good pupil, Henry?"
"She was a wild, laughing thing, but pleasant to have in the room. She made lesson-time charming. She learned fast—you could hardly tell when or how. French was nothing to her. She spoke it quick, quick—as quick as Mr. Moore himself."
"Was she obedient? Did she give trouble?"
"She gave plenty of trouble, in a way. She was giddy, but I liked her. I'm desperately fond of Shirley."
"Desperately fond—you small simpleton! You don't know what you say."
"I am desperately fond of her. She is the light of my eyes. I said so to Mr. Moore last night."