In truth the professor’s mood is not a happy one.  Sitting in the hansom that is taking him all too swiftly to his destination, he dwells with terror on the girl—­the undesired ward—­who has been thrust upon him.  He has quite made up his mind about her.  An Australian girl!  One knows what to expect there! Health unlimited; strength tremendous; and noise—­much noise.

Yes, she is sure to be a big girl.  A girl with branching limbs, and a laugh you could hear a mile off.  A young woman with no sense of the fitness of things, and a settled conviction that nothing could shake, that “’Strailia” is the finest country on earth!  A bouncing creature who never sits down; to whom rest or calm is unknown, and whose highest ambition will be to see the Tower and the wax-works.

Her hair is sure to be untidy; hanging probably in straight, black locks over her forehead, and her frock will look as if it had been pitchforked on to her, and requires only the insubordination of one pin to leave her without it again.

The professor is looking pale, but has on him all the air of one prepared for anything as the maid shows him in the drawing-room of the house where Miss Jane Majendie lives.

His thoughts are still full her niece. Her niece, poor woman, and his ward—­poor man! when the door opens and some one comes in.

Some one!

The professor gets slowly on to his feet, and stares at the advancing apparition.  Is it child or woman, this fair vision?  A hard question to answer!  It is quite easy to read, however, that “some one” is very lovely!

“It is you, Mr. Curzon, is it not?” says the vision.

Her voice is sweet and clear, a little petulant perhaps, but still very sweet.  She is quite small—­a little girl—­and clad in deep mourning.  There is something pathetic about the dense black surrounding such a radiant face, and such a childish figure.  Her eyes are fixed on the professor, and there is evident anxiety in their hazel depths; her soft lips are parted; she seems hesitating as if not knowing whether she shall smile or sigh.  She has raised both her hands as if unconsciously, and is holding them clasped against her breast.  The pretty fingers are covered with costly rings.  Altogether she makes a picture—­this little girl, with her brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown.  Dainty-sweet she looks,

    “Sweet as is the bramble-flower.”

“Yes,” says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means certain of the fact.  He is so vague about it, indeed, that “some one’s” dark eyes take a mischievous gleam.

“Are you sure?" says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty sort of little laugh.  It rings through the room, this laugh, and has the effect of frightening her altogether this time.  She checks herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad things of her.  She sighs softly.