“No—not at present, certainly,” said her father. “But I had to agree to something—and, really, I knew it was time. You’re twelve, you know, Norah. Be reasonable.”
“Oh, all right,” said Norah, swallowing her disgust. “If you say it’s got to be, it has to be, that’s all, Daddy. My goodness, how I will hate it! Have I got to learn heaps of things?”
“Loads,” said her father, nodding; “Latin, and French, and drawing, and geography, and how to talk grammar, and any number of things I never knew. Then you can teach the tutor things—riding, and cooking, and knitting, and the care of tame wallabies, and any number of things he never dreamed of. He’s a town young man, Norah, and horribly ignorant of all useful arts.”
“I’ll turn him over to Billy after school,” said Norah laughing. “Is he nice, Dad?”
“Very, I should say,” rejoined her father. “He’s the son of an old friend”—and his face saddened imperceptibly. “Your Aunt Eva said it ought to be a governess, and perhaps it would have been one only young Stephenson came in my way. He wanted something to do, and for his father’s sake I chose him for my daughter’s instructor.”
“Who’s his father, Daddy?”
“Well, you wouldn’t know if I told you, girlie. A dear old friend of mine when I was a young man—the best friend I ever had. Jim is named after him.”
“Is he dead now?”
Mr. Linton hesitated.
“We lost him years ago,” he said sadly. “A great trouble came upon him—he lost some money, and was falsely accused of dishonesty, and he had to go to prison. When he came out his wife refused to see him; they had made her believe him a thief, and she was a hard woman, although she loved him. She sent him a message that he must never try to see her or their boy.”