There was more to be told, and this was as good a time as any. She had very few clear memories before a particular day in the library, when they had finished one of her first reading lessons. She was dressed in a simple evening gown of soft creamy silk, with a yoke of dark old embroidery that enhanced the gentle gravity of her style, and her black hair flowed off her open forehead to pass under the control of a simple ribbon of silver. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. "Good-b'ye!" And with a cordial shake of the hand he took his departure. I love him as a brother. He’s out in Phoenix last I heard. "Stop!" groaned Blueskin. Wild, and his uncle, Sir Rowland Trenchard.
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