"What?" says the professor aghast. "But my dear——Miss Wynter, I'm afraid you must."
"Why? What is she to me?"
"Your aunt."
"That's nothing—nothing at all—even a guardian is better than that. And you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, "why can't you take me away?"
"I!"
"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the small fingers grows more eager—there is something in them now that might well be termed coaxing. "Do," says she.
"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. He almost shakes off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and agitation. Has she no common-sense—no knowledge of the things that be?
She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely.
"Impossible to leave Aunt Jane?" questions she. It is evident she has not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well," defiantly, "we shall see!"
"Why don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professor distractedly. He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as he did an hour ago.