"My memory is better, it seems, than yours. If I recollect right, you were given to me by your mother."
"O yes," said Rotha, flushing deeper,—"she did. But I am sure she did not mean that I should be a charge upon you, after I was able to help myself."
"You do not fancy that you can 'help yourself' now?"
"No."
"You do not judge that you are empowered to take back her gift?"
"Not exactly. But Mr. Southwode," said Rotha half laughing, "I do not see how you can keep it. I must do something for myself."
"Not till I give permission. Eat your pear, and leave business to me."
It rather comforted Rotha that this command was given to her; nevertheless and although the pear was a fine one, she 'chewed the cud of meditation' along with it. Very inopportunely those words heard long ago came floating back upon her memory, making her uncomfortable; making her doubt whether she could possibly remain long under the care that was so genial to her. Still, the present was too good to be spoiled, albeit the enjoyment of it was shadowed, by these reflections. I think, rather, according to some perverse principle of human nature, they made the enjoyment of it more tremblingly acute. However, the fruit was consumed in silence; Mr. 'Southwode having, as I hinted, his own thoughts. They left the table and took seats before the fire.
"Now Rotha," said her guardian, "I should like to know what you have done in these three years. Are you willing that I should try to find out?"
"By questioning me?" said Rotha laughing and flushing. "It would not be a new thing, Mr. Digby."