"Mr. Digby—can I help my will?"
He looked down at her. "What do you mean, Rotha?"
"I mean, can I help my will? I asked mother one day, and she said I had better ask you."
Rotha's eyes came up to his face with their query; and whatever it might import, he saw that she was in earnest. Grave and intent the girl's fine dark eyes were, and came up to his eyes with a kind of power of search.
"I do not think I understand you."
"Yes, you do. If I do not like something—do not want to be something— can I help my will?"
"What do you not want to be?" said Mr. Digby, waiving this severe question in mental philosophy.
"Must I tell you?"
"Not if you don't like; but I think it might help me to get at your difficulty, and so to get at the answer you want."
"Mr. Digby, can a person want to do something, and yet not be willing?"