Dora employed herself with her sewing for a time, and then observed: "I am afraid you cannot have been very happy as a girl, Miss Bird. Did--did you ever see any young men?"
Miss Bird uttered a grating, unmusical laugh. "I saw the backs of a few in church."
"Was that all?"
"And occasionally talked to a curate at a croquet party."
"How dreadful!" cried Dora.
"My aunt,", explained Miss Bird, "hated men! She was jilted as a girl, and detested men ever afterwards. So I never spoke to any men--except curates. No man ever said a tender word to me--no man ever lent me a book or wrote a poem to me, or presented me with a bunch of flowers. That was my girlhood--and now, perhaps, you won't be so surprised at my being a cross old woman!"
Dora, with a sweet impulse, dropped her sewing, and, putting her arms round the elderly lady's neck, kissed her on the cheek.
"I am so sorry you were unhappy," she said, gently.
The grimness faded out of Miss Bird's face. She laid down her embroidery and took Dora's hand.
"My dear," she said, "that is all over and gone. Still, I shall not forget what you said. Some day you may want a friend--a woman--and then you mustn't be afraid to come to me. My bark, child, is worse than my bite.... There! now we mustn't be sentimental any longer, but get on with our work."