“And pray who is Redshanks?” asked a lady, standing in the doorway. Zo turned round—and instantly collapsed. A terrible figure, associated with lessons and punishments, stood before her. The convivial friend of Donald, the established Missus of Lord Northlake, disappeared—and a polite pupil took their place. “If you please, Miss Minerva, Redshanks is nickname for a Highlander.” Who would have recognised the singer of “We’re gayly yet,” in the subdued young person who made that reply?
The door opened again. Another disastrous intrusion? Yes, another! Teresa appeared this time—caught Zo up in her arms—and gave the child a kiss that was heard all over the room. “Ah, mia Giocosa!” cried the old nurse—too happy to speak in any language but her own. “What does that mean?” Zo asked, settling her ruffled petticoats. “It means,” said Teresa, who prided herself on her English, “Ah, my Jolly.” This to a young lady who could slit a haggis! This to the only person in Scotland, privileged to smack Donald’s legs! Zo turned to her father, and recovered her dignity. Maria herself could hardly have spoken with more severe propriety. “I wish to go home,” said Zo.
Ovid had only to look at Carmina, and to see the necessity of immediate compliance with his little sister’s wishes. No more laughing, no more excitement, for that day. He led Zo out himself, and resigned her to her father at the door of his rooms on the ground floor.
Cheered already by having got away from Miss Minerva and the nurse, Zo desired to know who lived downstairs; and, hearing that these were Ovid’s rooms, insisted on seeing them. The three went in together.
Ovid drew Mr. Gallilee into a corner. “I’m easier about Carmina now,” he said. “The failure of her memory doesn’t extend backwards. It begins with the shock to her brain, on the day when Teresa removed her to this house—and it will end, I feel confident, with the end of her illness.”
Mr. Gallilee’s attention suddenly wandered. “Zo!” he called out, “don’t touch your brother’s papers.”
The one object that had excited the child’s curiosity was the writing-table. Dozens of sheets of paper were scattered over it, covered with writing, blotted and interlined. Some of these leaves had overflowed the table, and found a resting-place on the floor. Zo was amusing herself by picking them up. “Well!” she said, handing them obediently to Ovid, “I’ve had many a rap on the knuckles for writing not half as bad as yours.”
Hearing his daughter’s remark, Mr. Gallilee became interested in looking at the fragments of manuscript. “What an awful mess!” he exclaimed. “May I try if I can read a bit?” Ovid smiled. “Try by all means; you will make one useful discovery at least—you will see that the most patient men on the face of the civilised earth are Printers!”
Mr. Gallilee tried a page—and gave it up before he turned giddy. “Is it fair to ask what this is?”
“Something easy to feel, and hard to express,” Ovid answered. “These ill-written lines are my offering of gratitude to the memory of an unknown and unhappy man.”