Pliny glanced uneasily at his mother, but a summons to the parlor relieved him, and the three were left alone. Dora returned to her writing, and her small fingers glided swiftly over the page. Tode watched her with wondering and admiring eyes.
"Be you writing?" he exclaimed at last.
"Why, yes," said Dora. "Don't you see I am?"
"How old be you?"
"I'm eleven years old. You never studied grammar, did you?"
"And you know how to write?"
"Why, yes," said Dora again, this time laughing merrily. "I've known how more than a year."
Tode's answer was grave and thoughtful:
"Are you, though?" said Pliny. "That's just my age."