“Ah! that is it, is it?” said Mr St. Cyr. “She is hard on you, is she? I hope you do not let her trouble you too much.”
“By no means,” said Frederica with dignity. “On the contrary, I think I trouble her far more.”
“I can conceive it possible,” said Mr St. Cyr with a shrug. “But are you sure you can find your way home by these streets? See, I will go with you, and show you past the corner below. And let us hope that Madame Pauline will confess all her sins to-day; and I fancy that might ensure her absence till nightfall at least. And my young ladies, the next time you come to me in your troubles, pray don’t begin by knocking me down.”
“Pardon us, Cousin Cyprien. It was very careless,” said Frederica, eagerly. “But really and truly, may I come to you with my troubles? I mean, of course, when I have any. I have none now,” she added, laughing.
Mr St. Cyr did not laugh. He looked gravely into the bright face before him, so gravely that the laughing eyes looking up at him grew grave too.
“I hope it will be a long time before you need my help in trouble, little cousin. How old are you now? Let us see.”
Instead of turning at the corner, as he meant to do, he walked on with them.
“I shall be fifteen my next birthday. It comes in August,” said Frederica.
“Fifteen!” repeated Mr St. Cyr. “But what a little creature you are! It is a pity.”
“I am as tall as mama,” said Frederica with dignity.