"My old home," says she softly—"where I lived with my father."
"Ah, tell me something of your life," says Rylton kindly.
No idea of making himself charming to her is in his thoughts. He has, indeed, but one idea, and that is to encourage her to talk, so that he himself may enjoy the bliss of silence.
"There is nothing," says she quickly. "It has been a stupid life. I was very happy at Oakdean, when," hesitating, "papa was alive; but now I have to live at Rickfort, with Uncle George, and," simply, "I'm not happy."
"What's the matter with Rickfort?"
"Nothing. It's Uncle George that there is something the matter with. Rickfort is my house, too, but I hate it; it is so gloomy. I'm sure," with a shrug of her shoulders, "Uncle George might have it, and welcome, if only he wouldn't ask me to live there with him."
"Uncle George seems to make a poor show," says Rylton.
"He's horrid!" says Miss Bolton, without reservation. "He's a beast! He hates me, and I hate him."
"Oh, no!" says Rylton, roused a little.
The child's face is so earnest. He feels a little amused, and somewhat surprised. She seems the last person in the world capable of hatred.