The professor looked guilty. "Well, I chanced on an advertisement—"
"And he hasn't had a chance to bring them out all day—"
"Frances!"
"Here they are," teased his daughter, "with your report on agriculture," she held up dramatically the big book she had dragged from beneath the papers on the table. "I have been listening to hear him begin talking of it every moment. He's just been waiting the right time,—you know you have," to her father.
The professor fingered the pamphlet nervously. "You know, here—the secretary says—"
"There, he has begun; I am going to see about supper."
Edward listened. There was much to awaken his keenest interest. He was devoted to his pursuit, theory and practice. But he was listening too, with all his inner consciousness, for a light footstep, and when Frances came quietly back with an amused look at the two, his eyes flashed her amusement back at her, as with much show of not disturbing them, she slipped into a chair before the fire. The professor was unconscious; he was in full swing and went on glibly.
The young man's face was turned attentively towards him; the father did not know that just so Frances' face was in the line of vision, but Edward knew. It needed but the flicker of an eyelid for him to watch the supple figure in its careless lounging; the fluff of the dark hair above her forehead, the curve of the long black lashes as she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. A cosy fireside, an easy chair and this same occupant for it flashed for a moment on the horizon of his dreamings. It was but a dream he dared not name even to himself,—a vision that dazzled him. He put his hand over his eyes.
The professor broke the thread of his argument. "You are tired?"
"I! no—ah—" the young man stammered.