“Say companion,” said Helen, smiling.
“Well, a companion, then. I wish we could get that young fishing scoundrel sent away; but of course one cannot do that. Oh, by the way, what about Maria? Is she going away?”
“No,” said Helen. “I had a long talk to her about her unreasoning dislike to Dexter, and she has consented to stay.”
“Well, it’s very kind of her,” said the doctor testily. “I suppose Mrs Millett will be giving warning next.”
“Oh no,” said Helen; “she finds a good deal of fault, but I think, on the whole, she feels kindly toward the poor boy.”
“Don’t!” cried the doctor, giving the writing-table so angry a slap with his open hand that a jet of ink shot out of the stand and made half a dozen great splashes. “Now, look there, what you’ve made me do,” he continued, as he began hastily to soak up the black marks with blotting-paper. “I will not have Dexter called ‘the poor boy.’ He is not a poor boy. He is a human waif thrown up on life’s shore. No, no: and you are not to call him a human waif. I shall well educate him, and place him on the high-road toward making his way properly in life as a gentleman should, and I’ll show the whole world that I’m right.”
“You shall, papa,” said Helen merrily; “and I will help you all I can.”
“I know you will, my dear, and you are helping me,” cried the doctor warmly; “and it’s very good of you. But I do wish we could make him think before he does anything. His mischievous propensities are simply horrible. And now, my dear, about his education. We must do something more, if it is only for the sake of keeping him out of trouble. You are doing nobly, but that is not enough. I did mean to read classics with him myself, but I have no time. My book takes too much thought. Now, I will not send the poor boy—”
“‘Poor boy,’ papa!” said Helen merrily.
“Eh? Did I say ‘poor boy’!” cried the doctor, scratching his nose again.