“Never mind her name, my dear aunt,” said John, gruffly. “I want to tell you about her.”
He told her—he told her all he knew. She listened, horror-stricken, regarding him with open mouth and streaming eyes.
“And what do you think is my duty?” asked John, abruptly.
Miss Lindon shook her head. “I 'm sure I don't know what to advise you, dear. I 'll try to find out some kind Christian people who want a servant.”
“I don't want any kind Christian people at all,” said John. “I'm going to make up in ease and happiness for all the wrongs that humanity has inflicted on her. I am going to adopt her, educate her, fill her up with the good things of life.”
“That's very fine of you, John,” said Miss Lindon. “Some people are as fond of their adopted children as of their own. I remember Miss Engleshaw adopted a little child. She was four, if I remember right, and she used to dress her so prettily. I used to go and help her choose frocks. Really they were quite expensive. Now I come to think of it, John, I could help you that way with little Unity. I don't think gentlemen have much experience in choosing little girls' frocks. How old is she?”
“Nearly sixteen,” said John.
“That's rather old,” said Miss Lindon, from whose mind this new interest seemed to have driven the tragic side of the question. “It's a pity you could n't have begun when she was four.”
“It is,” said John.
“Only if you had begun with her at four, you would n't be wanting to adopt her now,” said Miss Lindon, with an illuminating flash of logic.