She had none of the cares that might have fallen on her as the young mistress of the house.
’Phia had been trained by Miss “Aggravater” into a model manager, and was quite capable of assuming all the responsibility and discharging all the duties of a good housekeeper.
Thus the young lady, while holding all the authority of the mistress, enjoyed all the freedom of a guest.
Every morning after breakfast she brought her little fancy work-basket down into the library, and sat in a low chair by the table where her uncle was reading or writing.
She sat very quietly working, as she used in her childhood to sit playing. She never disturbed him by a word or a movement, being contented only to remain near him.
Yet whatever might be his occupation, of reading or of writing, he was sure to share it with her. It was in this way: If he happened to be engaged with a book, he would read choice selections from his author, and then draw her thoughts forth in praise or censure of the subject, or its treatment. If he were engaged with his pen, he would read to her what he had written, and invite her to suggest any alteration or improvement that might occur to her mind.
And he was often amused and sometimes startled by the brightness and originality of her thoughts and criticisms.
Sometimes he would pause in his employment and sit and silently watch her at her pretty work of silk embroidery. At such times, she worked more diligently than at others, keeping her eyes fixed upon her needle, and never daring to raise them to his face.
If you had asked her—why was this? she could not have told you. She did not know herself. She only knew, or rather felt, that, at such moments, to meet Marcel’s eyes made her own eyes sink to the floor, and her cheeks to burn with confusion, indignation and misery.
She hated herself for this unkind emotion, which she could neither comprehend nor conquer.