But now Rita had been introduced to the whys and wherefores in their simplest forms, so that she should be able, finally, to construct her thoughts for herself, word by word and phrase by phrase, into rounded and completed sentences.
At the outset, I had told her how the greatest writers in English were not above reading and re-reading plain little Grammars such as she was then studying, also that the favourite book of some of the most famous men the world ever knew, a book which they perused from cover to cover, year in and year out, as they would their family Bible,—was an ordinary standard dictionary.
I gave Rita her thin little Grammar and a note book in which to copy her lessons, and she slipped these into her bosom, hugging them to her heart and laughing with pleasure.
She put out her hands and grasped mine, then, in her sweet, unpremeditated way, she threw her arms round my neck and drew my lips to hers.
Dear little girl! How very like a child she was! A creature of impulse, a toy in the hands of her own fleeting emotions!
"Say! George,—I just got to hug you sometimes," she cried, "you are so good to me."
She stood back and surveyed me as if she were trying to gauge my weight and strength.
As it so happened, that was exactly what she was doing.
"You aren't scared of our Joe,—are you?" she asked.
"No!" I laughed. "What put that funny question into your head?"