"At what age do I attain my majority?" I asked eagerly.
"Are you tired of Oaklands?" His eyes were watching me intently.
"Never, until to day." I faltered, exceedingly frightened, but forced to tell the truth.
He turned over the leaves of the Cæsar for a few seconds, in silence, then he said in quite gentle tones:—
"You are tired; we will leave books for another day."
I bowed, but dared not trust myself to speak lest I might reveal that my tears were struggling to find vent, and began gathering up my sketches. He took up a view of Oaklands over which I had lingered lovingly for a good many hours, adding what I fondly thought were perfecting touches and said:—
"I should like to keep this, if you will give it to me."
My heart instantly grew lighter, so that I was able to say quite calmly that he was very welcome to it. This, however, was the only compliment he paid me for the work over which I had been expending so much time and effort during the past few months; but I had done the work much in the same fashion that the birds sing—from instinct.