"Wouldn't you like to go to school?" said he.
"I did go to school," I said.
"Well, I mean to—er—school to prepare you for college."
The question hurt me. It was a visible criticism of my precious poem. Had that, then, revealed my pathetic condition of ignorance? I said roughly, for I felt like crying:
"Of course college is out of the question for me. I have to earn my living; but I expect to acquire an education gradually. One can educate herself by reading and thinking. My father often said that, and he's a college man—an Oxford graduate."
"That's true," said the man rather hurriedly, and as if he regretted what he had just said, and wished to dismiss the subject abruptly: "Now I'm going to take you back to your seat. We'll be in Richmond very shortly now."
We got up, but he stopped a minute, and took a card from his pocket. He wrote something on it, and then gave it to me.
"There, little girl, is my name and address," he said. "If there ever comes a time when you—er—need help of any kind, will you promise to come to me?"
I nodded, and then he gave me a big, warm smile.
When I was quite alone, and sure no one was watching me, I took out his card and examined it. "Roger Avery Hamilton" was his name. Judge of my surprise, when I found the address he had written under his name was in the very city to which I was going—Richmond!