“You must know it very well,” said Mrs. March, aimlessly.
“I was born there,—if that means knowing it. I lived there—till I was eleven years old. We came home after my mother died.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. March.
The girl did not go further into her family history; but by one of those leaps which seem to women as logical as other progressions, she arrived at asking, “Is Mr. Burnamy one of the contributors?”
Mrs. March laughed. “He is going to be, as soon as his poem is printed.”
“Poem?”
“Yes. Mr. March thinks it's very good.”
“I thought he spoke very nicely about 'The Maiden Knight'. And he has been very nice to papa. You know they have the same room.”
“I think Mr. Burnamy told me,” Mrs. March said.
The girl went on. “He had the lower berth, and he gave it up to papa; he's done everything but turn himself out of doors.”