The Judge drew a long breath. “Indeed!”
“Yes, I’m a-schoolin’ it. I tell you, when I saw where Bethany had come, an’ when that boy of yours come hurryin’ down River Street with books an’ things for us an’ hurryin’ off again like as we was poisoned, I begun to think, ‘It’s time I was lookin’ higher.’”
A doubtful expression passed over the Judge’s face, but instead of resenting it she went hurriedly on: “So the next time Barry Mafferty comes in, says I to him, ‘Barry, I wants to be a lady.’ Says he, ‘Then quit yer shop an’ go to school, an’ I’ll teach you Latin an’ French, ’cause you’ll not get them in the fust grades of the public.’ An’ he gave me a book. I can say mensa now—mensa, mensæ, mensæ, mensam, mensa, mensa. Mensæ, mensarum, mensis, mensas, mensæ, mensis. An’ musa, too,” and she glibly rattled off the declension of musa.
“And do you know what musa means?” inquired the Judge, somewhat helplessly, when she at last paused for want of breath.
“Musa, amuse,” she replied, quickly.
“And what is a muse?” pursued the Judge.
“You don’t know what amuse is at your time of life!” she said, sharply. “Come on, now, you’re just foolin’ me.”
“Ask Mafferty to tell you about the Muses the next time you go to him,” said the Judge. “At present you have a wrong idea of the meaning of the word.”
“Hev I?” she said, sharply. “I’ll find out better. Want to hear some French?”
“If you like,” replied the Judge, politely.