He really did not intend to be anything but kind, but the whole matter presented itself to him in a very ludicrous light; and in endeavoring to preserve proper gravity, he became severe. Ivy, all-unused to the world, still had a secret feeling that he was laughing at her. Tears, that would not be repressed, glistened in her downcast eyes, gathered on the long lashes, dropped silently to the floor. He saw that she was entirely a child, ignorant, artless, and sincere. His better feelings were roused, and he exclaimed, with real earnestness,—
"My dear young lady, I should rejoice to serve you in any way, I beg you to believe."
His words only hastened the catastrophe which seems to be always impending over the weaker sex. Ivy sobbed outright,—a perfect tempest. Felix Clerron looked on with a bachelor's dismay. "What in thunder? Confound the girl!" were his first reflections; but her utter abandonment to sorrow melted his heart again,—not a very susceptible heart either; but men, especially bachelors, are so—green! (the word is found in Cowper.)
He sat down by her side, stroked the hair from her burning forehead, as if she had been six instead of sixteen, and again and again assured her of his willingness to assist her.
"I must go home," whispered Ivy, as soon as she could command, or rather coax her voice.
His hospitality was shocked.
"Indeed you must not, till we have at least had a consultation. Tell me how much you know. What have you studied?"
"Oh, nothing, Sir. I am very stupid."
"Ah! we must begin with the Alphabet, then. Blocks or a primer?"
Ivy smiled through her tears.