A Red Wallflower. Warner Susan

to her natural life and energy and the fresh spring of youthful spirits. So, when her friend really went away to college in the fall, Esther did not slip back to the condition from which he had delivered her.

      But the loss of him was a dreadful loss to the child, although Pitt was not going over the sea, and would be home at Christmas. He tried to comfort her with this prospect. Esther took no comfort. She sat silent, tearless, pale, in a kind of despair. Pitt looked at her, half amused, half deeply concerned.

      'And you must go on with all your studies, Esther, you know,' he was saying. 'I will show you what to do, and when I come home I shall go into a very searching examination to see whether you have done it all thoroughly.'

      'Will you?' she said, lifting her eyes to him with a gleam of sudden hope.

      'Certainly! I shall give you lessons just as usual whenever I come home; indeed, I expect I shall do it all your life. I think I shall always be teaching and you always be learning. Don't you think that is how it will be, Queen Esther?' he said kindly.

      'You cannot give me lessons when you are away.'

      'But when I come back!'

      There was a very faint yet distinct lightening of the gloom in her face. Yet it was plain Esther was not cheated out of her perception of the truth. She was going to lose her friend; and his absence would be very different from his presence; and the bits of vacation time would not help, or help only by anticipation, the long stretches of months in which there would be neither sight nor sound of him. Esther's looks had brightened for a moment, but then her countenance fell again and her face grew visibly pale. Pitt saw it with dismay.

      'But Esther!' he said, 'this is nothing. Every man must go to college, you know, just as he must learn swimming and boating; and so I must go; but it will not last for ever.'

      'How long?' said she, lifting her eyes to him again, heavy with their burden of sorrow.

      'Well, perhaps three years; unless I enter Junior, and then it would be only two. That isn't much.'

      'What will you do then?'

      'Then? I don't know. Look after you, at any rate. Let us see. How old will you be in two years?'

      'Almost fourteen.'

      'Fourteen. Well, you see you will have a great deal to do before you can afford to be fourteen years old; so much that you will not have time to miss me.'

      Esther made no answer.

      'I'll be back at Christmas anyhow, you know; and that's only three months away, or a little more.'

      'For how long?'

      'Never mind; we will make a little do the work of a great deal. It will seem a long time, it will be so good.'

      'No,' said Esther; 'that will make it only the shorter.'

      'Why, Esther,' said he, half laughing, 'I didn't know you cared so much about me. I don't deserve all that.'

      'I am not crying,' said the girl, rising with a sort of childish dignity; 'but I shall be alone.'

      They had been sitting on a rock, resting and talking, and now set out again to go home. Esther spoke no more; and Pitt was silent, not knowing what to say; but he watched her, and saw that if she had not been crying at the time she had made that declaration, the tears had taken their revenge and were coming now. Yet only in a calm, repressed way; now and then he saw a drop fall, or caught a motion of Esther's hand which could only have been made to prevent a drop from falling. She walked along steadily, turning neither to the right hand nor the left; she who ordinarily watched every hedgerow and ran to explore every group of plants in the corner of a field, and was keen to see everything that was to be seen in earth or heaven. Pitt walked along silently too. He was at a careless age, but he was a generous-minded fellow; and to a mind of that sort there is something exceedingly attractive and an influence exceedingly powerful in the fact of being trusted and depended on.

      'Mother,' he said when he got home, 'I wish you would look after that little girl now and then.'

      'What little girl?'

      'You must know whom I mean; the colonel's daughter.'

      'The colonel is sufficient for that, I should say.'

      'But you know what sort of a man he is. And she has no mother, nor anybody else, except servants.'

      'Isn't he fond of her?'

      'Very fond; but then he isn't well, and he is a reserved, silent man; the child is left to herself in a way that is bad for her.'

      'What do you suppose I can do?'

      'A great deal; if you once knew her and got fond of her, mother.'

      Mrs. Dallas made no promise; however, she did go to see Esther. It was about a week after Pitt's departure. She found father and daughter very much as her son had found them the day he was introduced to the box of coins. Esther was on the floor, beside the same box, and the colonel was on his sofa. Mrs. Dallas did take the effect of the picture for that moment before the colonel sprang up to receive her. Then she had to do with a somewhat formal but courtly host, and the picture was lost. The lady sat there, stately in her silks and laces, carrying on a stiff conversation; for she and Colonel Gainsborough had few points of sympathy or mutual understanding; and for a while she forgot Esther. Then her eye again fell upon the child in her corner, sitting by her box with a sad, uninterested air.

      'And how is Esther?' she said, turning herself a little towards that end of the room. 'Really I came to see Esther, colonel. How does she do?'

      'She is much obliged to you, and quite well, madam, I believe.'

      'But she must want playmates, colonel. Why don't you send her to school?'

      'I would, if there were a good school at hand.'

      'There are schools at New Haven, and Hartford, and Boston—plenty of schools that would suit you.'

      'Only that, as you observe, they are at New Haven, and Hartford, and

       Boston; out of my reach.'

      'You couldn't do without her for a while?'

      'I hardly think it; nor she without me. We are all, each of us, that the other has.'

      'Pitt used to give you lessons, didn't he?' the lady went on, turning more decidedly to Esther. Esther rose and came near.

      'Yes, ma'am.'

      'What did he teach you?'

      Now Esther felt no more congeniality than her father did with this handsome, stately, commanding woman. Yet it would have been impossible to the girl to say why she had an instant unwillingness to answer this simple question. She did not answer it, except under protest.

      'It began with the coins,' she said vaguely. 'He said we would study history with them.'

      'And did you?'

      'Yes, ma'am.'

      'How did you manage it? or how did he? He has original ways of doing things.'

      'Yes, ma'am. We used to take only one or two of the coins at once, and then Pitt told me what to read.'

      'What did he tell you to read?'

      'A great many different books, at different times.'

      'But tell Mrs. Dallas what books, Esther,' her father put in.

      'There were so many, papa. Gibbon's History, and Plutarch's Lives, and

       Rollin, and Vertot and Hume, and I—forget some of them.'

      'How much of all these did you really read, Esther?'

      'I don't know, ma'am. I read what he told me.'

      The lady turned to Colonel Gainsborough with a peculiar smile. 'Sounds rather heterogeneous!' she said.

      It was on Esther's lips to justify her