Bertram Chesleigh saw the little, retreating figure in the huge cap and gray gown, and laughed as he kissed his little niece.
"I suppose that was Mary Smith, the prodigy?" he said.
"Yes, and you must not laugh at her," said Ruby, a little resentfully. "She is very good and sweet, and I love her dearly."
There was an element of teasing in Bertram Chesleigh's nature, and Ruby's words roused it into activity.
"She looked very prim and starched," he observed. "She must be an old maid—is she not, Ruby?"
He expected that the little girl would grow indignant at this comment on her favorite, but instead of this she puckered her little brows thoughtfully.
"I don't quite know what you mean by an old maid," she replied.
"You are caught in the trap, Bert. You will have to define yourself," said Mrs. Desmond, laughingly.
"I don't know whether I can," he replied as gayly. "But I think, Ruby, that an old maid is a person who—who doesn't like men, and grows old and never marries."
"Then my nurse is an old maid. You guessed right, Uncle Bert," said the child, with perfect soberness.