A Witch of the Hills, v. 1

'Oh yes, Ivanhoe,' she repeated carefully after me. Evidently, as in the case of Don Quixote, she had been uncertain how to pronounce the title.

'And these?' I pointed, one by one, to some modern novels. 'Don't you like any of these?' Already I began to be alarmed at the extent of her reading.

'Yes, I like some of them—pretty well.'

'Why do you like Don Quixote and Ivanhoe better?'

She considered for a long time, her blue eyes fixed thoughtfully on the shelves.

'I think I feel more as if they'd really happened.'

'But when you were reading Armadale, didn't you feel as if that had happened?'

'Oh yes,' with a flash of excitement. 'One night I couldn't sleep, because I thought of it so much.'

'Then you thought as much about it as about Ivanhoe?'

'Ye-es, but–' A pause. 'I thought about Ivanhoe because I wanted to, and I thought about Armadale because I couldn't help it.'

I went on asking her what she had read, and I own that I dare not give the list. But her frank young mind had absorbed no evil, and when I asked her how she liked one famous peccant hero, she answered quite simply—

'I liked him very much—part of the book. And when he did wrong things, I was always wanting to go to him, and tell him not to be so wicked and silly; and then, oh! I was so glad when he reformed and married Sophia.'

'But he wasn't good enough for her.'

'Ah, but then he was a man!' Her tone implied 'only a man.'

'Then you think women are better than men?'

'I think they ought to be.'

'Why?'

'Well, men have to work, and women have only to be good.'

I was surprised at this answer.

'That is not true always. Your mother is a very good woman, and has had to work very hard indeed.'

'But mamma's an exception; she says so. And she says it's very hard to work as she does, and be good too.'

I could scarcely help laughing, though it was pretty to see how innocently the young girl had taken the querulous speech.

'Well, and then I'm a man, and I don't have to work.'

'Perhaps that's why you're so good.'

I was so utterly astonished at this naïve speech that I had nothing to say. The blood rushed to the girl's face; she was afraid she had been rude.

'How do you know that I am good, Babiole?' I asked gently.

But this was taxing her penetration too much.

'I don't know,' she answered shyly.

'Why do you think people are better when they don't work?'

She looked at me, and was reassured that I was not offended.

'Well, sometimes when mamma has been working very hard—not now, you know; but it used to be like that—she used to say things that hurt me, and made me want to cry. And then I used to look at her poor tired face and say to myself, "It's the hard work and not mamma that says those things;" and then, of course, I did not mind. And when you have once had to work too hard, you never get over it as you do over other things.'

'What other things?'

'Oh—fancies and—and things like that.'

'Love troubles?'

She looked up at me with a shy, sideways glance that was full of the most perfectly unconscious witchery.

'Yes, mamma says they're nonsense.'

'She liked nonsense, too, once.'

Babiole looked up at me with the delight of a common perception.

'Yes, I've often thought that. And then all men are not like–'

She stopped short.

'Papa?'

She shook her head. 'One mustn't say that. One must make allowances for clever people, mamma says.'

'You will be clever, too, some day, if you go on reading and thinking about what you read.'

'No, I don't want to be clever; it makes people so selfish. But,' with a sigh, 'I wish I knew something, and could play and sing and read all those books that are not English.'

'Shall I teach you French?'

'Will you? Oh, Mr. Maude!'

I think she was going to clap her hands with delight, but remembered in time the impropriety of such a proceeding. Four o'clock next day was fixed as the hour for the first lesson, and in the meantime I made another journey to Aberdeen to provide myself with a whole library of French grammars and other elementary works.

At four o'clock Babiole made her appearance, very scrupulously combed and washed, and wearing the air of intense seriousness befitting such a matter as the beginning of one's education. This almost broke down, however, under the glowing excitement of taking a phrase-book into one's hand, and repeating after me, 'Good-day, bon-jour; How do you do? Comment vous portezvous?' and a couple of pages of the same kind. Then she wrote out the verb 'To have' in French and English; and her appetite for knowledge not being yet quenched, she then learnt and wrote down the names of different objects round us, some of which, I regret to say, her master had to find out in the dictionary, not being prepared to give off-hand the French for 'hearthrug,' letter-weight,' and 'wainscoting.' We then went through the names of the months and the seasons of the year, after which, surfeited with information, she gave a little sigh of completed bliss, and, looking up at me, said simply that she thought that was as much as she could learn perfectly by to-morrow. I thought it was a great deal more, but did not like to discourage her by saying so. I had much doubt about my teaching, having been plunged into it suddenly without having had time to formulate a method; but then I was convinced that by the time I felt more sure of my powers my pupil's zeal would have melted away, and I should have no one to experimentalise upon. As soon as I had assured her that she had done quite enough for the first lesson, Babiole rose, collected the formidable pile of books, her exercise-book, and the pen I had consecrated to her use, and asked me where she should keep them. We decided upon a corner of the piano as being a place where they would not be in my way, Babiole having a charmingly feminine reverence for the importance of even the most frivolous occupations of the stronger sex. After this she thanked me very gravely and prettily for my kindness in teaching her, and hastened away, evidently in the innocent belief that I must be anxious to be alone.

What a light the bright child seemed to have left in the musty room! I began to smile to myself at the remembrance of her preternatural gravity, and Ta-ta put her forepaws on my knees and wagged her tail for sympathy. I thought it very probable that Mrs. Ellmer would interfere to prevent the girl's coming again, or that Babiole's enthusiasm for learning would die out in a day or two, and I should be left waiting for my pupil with my grammars and dictionaries on my hands.

However, she reappeared next day, absolutely perfect in the verb avoir, the months, the seasons, and the pages out of the phrase-book. When I praised her she said, with much warmth—