Professor Kelton was unwontedly preoccupied to-night. Sylvia saw that he
had barely touched his strawberries--their first of the season, though
they were fine ones and the cream was the thickest. She folded her hands
on the edge of the table and watched him gravely in the light of the
four candles whose flame flared in the breeze that swept softly through
the dining-room windows. Feeling her eyes upon him the old gentleman
suddenly roused himself.
"We've had good times, haven't we, Sylvia? And I wonder if I have really
taught you anything. I suppose I ought to have been sending you to
school with the other youngsters about here, but the fact is that I
never saw a time when I wanted to part with you! You've been a fine
little shipmate, but you're not so little any more. Sixteen your next
birthday! If that's so it isn't best for us to go on this way. You must
try your oar in deeper water. You've outgrown me--and I'm a dull old
fellow at best. You must go where you will meet other girls, and deal
with a variety of teachers,--not just one dingy old fellow like me. Have
you ever thought what kind of a school you'd like to go to?"
"I don't believe I have; I don't know much about schools."
"Well, don't you think you'd like to get away from so much mathematics
and learn things that will fit you to be entertaining and amusing? You
know I've taught you a lot of things just to amuse myself and they can
never be of the slightest use to you.
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