A Little Rebel | Page 6

nearness soothe a heart
that's sore, You might be moved to stay awhile Before my door."
"About?" begins the professor, and stammers, and ceases.
"Everything," says she, with a little nod. "It is impossible to talk to
Aunt Jane. She doesn't talk, she only argues, and always wrongly. But
you are different. I can see that. Now tell me,"--she leans even more
forward and looks intently at the professor, her pretty brows wrinkled
as if with extreme and troublous thought--"What are the duties of a
guardian?"
"Eh?" says the professor. He moves his glasses up to his forehead and
then pulls them down again. Did ever anxious student ask him question
so difficult of answer as this one--that this small maiden has
propounded?
"You can think it over," says she most graciously. "There is no hurry,
and I am quite aware that one isn't made a guardian every day. Do you
think you could make it out whilst I count forty?"
"I think I could make it out more quickly if you didn't count at all,"

says the professor, who is growing warm. "The duties of a
guardian--are--er--to--er--to see that one's ward is comfortable and
happy."
"Then there is a great deal of duty for you to do," says she solemnly,
letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand.
"I know--I'm sure of it," says the professor with a sigh that might be
called a groan. "But your aunt, Miss Majendie--your mother's
sister--can----"
"I don't believe she's my mother's sister," says Miss Wynter calmly. "I
have seen my mother's picture. It is lovely! Aunt Jane was a
changeling--I'm sure of it. But never mind her. You were going to
say----?"
"That Miss Majendie, who is virtually your guardian--can explain it all
to you much better than I can."
"Aunt Jane is not my guardian!" The mild look of enquiry changes to
one of light anger. The white brow contracts. "And certainly she could
never make one happy and comfortable. Well--what else?"
"She will look after----"
"I told you I don't care about Aunt Jane. Tell me what you can do----"
"See that your fortune is not----"
"I don't care about my fortune either," with a little gesture. "But I do
care about my happiness. Will you see to that?"
"Of course," says the professor gravely.
"Then you will take me away from Aunt Jane!" The small vivacious
face is now all aglow. "I am not happy with Aunt Jane. I"--clasping her
hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes--"I hate Aunt
Jane. She says things about poor papa that----Oh! how I hate her!"

"But--you shouldn't--you really should not. I feel certain you ought
not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment.
"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth. "I
do though, for all that! I"--pausing, and regarding him with a somewhat
tragic air that sits most funnily upon her--"am not going to stay here
much longer!"
"What?" says the professor aghast. "But my dear----Miss Wynter, I'm
afraid you must."
"Why? What is she to me?"
"Your aunt."
"That's nothing--nothing at all--even a guardian is better than that. And
you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and pressing five
soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, "why can't
you take me away?"
"I!"
"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the
small fingers grows more eager--there is something in them now that
might well be termed coaxing. "Do," says she.
"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. He
almost shakes off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and
agitation. Has she no common-sense--no knowledge of the things that
be?
She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat
strangely.
"Impossible to leave Aunt Jane?" questions she. It is evident she has
not altogether understood, and yet is feeling puzzled. "Well," defiantly,
"we shall see!"
"Why don't you like your Aunt Jane?" asks the professor distractedly.

He doesn't feel nearly as fond of his dead friend as he did an hour ago.
"Because," lucidly, "she is Aunt Jane. If she were your Aunt Jane you
would know."
"But my dear----"
"I really wish," interrupts Miss Wynter petulantly, "you wouldn't call
me 'my dear.' Aunt Jane calls me that when she is going to say
something horrid to me. Papa----" she pauses suddenly, and tears rush
to her dark eyes.
"Yes. What of your father?" asks the professor hurriedly, the tears
raising terror in his soul.
"You knew him--speak to me of him," says she, a little tremulously.
"I knew him well indeed. He was very good to me, when--when I was
younger. I was very fond of him."
"He was good to everyone," says