spoke, drew the girl’s hand into a long soft clasp which served to keep them confronted while she delicately groped for whatever thread the encounter seemed to proffer.
Justine made no attempt to evade the scrutiny to which she found herself exposed; she merely released her hand by a movement instinctively evasive of the mechanical endearment, explaining, with a smile that softened the gesture: “I was out with Cicely when you arrived. We’ve just come in.”
“The dear child! I haven’t seen her either.” Mrs. Ansell continued to bestow upon the speaker’s clear dark face an intensity of attention in which, for the moment, Cicely had no perceptible share. “I hear you are teaching her botany, and all kinds of wonderful things.”
Justine smiled again. “I am trying to teach her to wonder: that is the hardest faculty to cultivate in the modern child.”
“Yes—I suppose so; in myself,” Mrs. Ansell admitted with a responsive brightness, “I find it develops with age. The world is a remarkable place.” She threw this off absently, as though leaving Miss Brent to apply it either to the inorganic phenomena with which Cicely was supposed to be occupied, or to those subtler manifestations that engaged her own attention.
“It’s a great thing, she continued, “for Bessy to
have had your help—for Cicely, and for herself too.
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