word.
“I am not dear, and I’m not yours,” she cries. “I’m only a school-girl - you have all but told me so before to-day! If I were a man - if I were you - I should tell Captain Harris what I thought of him!”
“Why? What has he done now?”
“Now? You know how rude he was to poor Mr. Ready this very afternoon!”
It was true. He had been very rude indeed. But Ready also had been at fault. It may be that I was always inclined to take an opposite view, but I felt bound to point this out, and at any
back to England, to make her home with other relatives, before he himself returned to Africa (as he once told me) to lay his bones beside those of his wife. I hardly know which of the pair I see more plainly as I write - the young girl with her soft eyes and her sunny hair, or the old gentleman with