Part 9 (1/2)

'Anything you like; it will be all the better test if I don't give you a subject,' said Margaret; and she escaped before the child had time to say any more. She felt a little mean about it, for she was positive she could not have done it herself; but she consoled herself by the reflection that the new girl was queer enough for anything. Besides, she did not want to miss the whole of her history cla.s.s for the sake of examining a child who was ignorant of all the things that other children knew, but had picked up the most extraordinary bits of knowledge by herself. So Babs was left to face the difficulty, for the first time in her life, of writing something within a given time.

It was certainly not easy to think of anything to say, in this unfamiliar, austere little room, with a blank sheet of paper staring at her, and some one preparing to pounce upon her presently, to criticise what she had done. In the library at home such a chance as this would have filled her with joy, and the paper would have been covered in a few minutes with a medley about giants and princesses and dragons, to be told later on to Kit and Bobbin when they clamoured for a story. But here it seemed impossible to get a single word on to her sheet of paper, and she looked at the clock in despair, and wondered what would happen to her when Miss Finlayson returned and found she had written nothing. She plunged her pen desperately into the ink at last, and wrote the first thing that came into her head. It was a t.i.tle she remembered noticing on the back of a book with a smart cover--one that had lately been added to her father's library. She did not know what it meant, and she was not sure what she was going to say about it, but it sounded more like the kind of thing to choose for an examination than one of her fairy stories would have been. Then, just as she had written the heading very crookedly across the top of the page, she found that the pen she had picked up was a quill, and possessed the most entrancing capacity for making splutters. It was the first time she had happened upon a quill, and the discovery was too delightful to be neglected. So she spent the next ten minutes in adorning her paper with fantastic ink shapes, that she named bogies on the spot and wove into a fairy story about an enchanted princess, who had to write a composition in an hour and a half.

When this exciting occupation began to pall, she was seized with a sudden desire to explore, and began wandering restlessly round the room.

There was very little to examine besides books; but books were always good enough for Barbara, and she became very quiet and absorbed as her inky forefinger travelled slowly along the bottom shelves, until she had exhausted the outsides of all the volumes that came within her reach.

Then she stood back, with her hands behind her, and stared up at the ones above her head; and a familiar name, printed in dull gold letters on the back of a solid volume in russet brown, suddenly made her heart leap.

'Father's book!' she gasped. 'There's father's book! And I've been in this stupid place all this time, and never discovered it till now! Oh, I must get father's book!'

There was a sob in her throat when she found that even a footstool, placed on the highest chair in the room, did not mount her up sufficiently to reach the precious volume. Her bright little eyes travelled quickly round the study, to embrace all its resources, and she very nearly uttered one of her wild war-whoops of delight when she spied a step-ladder half hidden in a dark corner. It did not take her a minute to stagger with it across the room and to fix it, more or less securely, against the bookshelf. After that, there was no sound in the little study except the ticking of the clock and the rustling of leaves, until the door opened sharply and the owner herself walked in.

For a moment Miss Finlayson thought the room was empty. Then she saw the small figure with the big book, perched on the top of the ladder; and the quaintness of the picture made her smile irresistibly. 'What are you doing, Barbara?' she asked.

She spoke as softly as she could, but the sound of her voice was quite enough to startle the unconscious child. She dropped the heavy book with a thud, and would have lost her balance and plunged after it, had not Miss Finlayson been prepared for the contingency and put out an arm to save her. Babs caught at it wildly, and found herself lifted down and placed on the floor in safety.

Miss Finlayson had stopped smiling, but she did not look very angry. 'What were you doing up there, Barbara?' she repeated gently.

'I was reading father's book,' answered Barbara, rubbing her eyes. 'I didn't know it was there, till I looked up and saw it; and then I just climbed up and got it. I think I must have been reading a great long time, because I've got such an ache just there.' She curled her hand under her arm and thumped the middle of her back. 'Do you ever get an ache in the middle of your back when you've been reading?' she inquired earnestly.

Miss Finlayson did not answer immediately. She stooped and picked up the fallen book first, and replaced it on the shelf. Barbara began to wonder if she was angry, and if that was why she had such an odd, serious look on her face.

'And do you like your father's book, Barbara?' she asked presently.

'I think it's the most beautiful book in all the world,' answered Barbara, without hesitation.

Miss Finlayson was a little startled, but she did not show it. 'Then I wonder if you can explain it to me,' she went on; 'for, do you know, I find some of it rather difficult to understand?'

Barbara threw back her head and laughed merrily. 'But I don't understand _any_ of it,' she cried. 'You have to be grown up to understand it, father says. And I'm not grown up yet, you see.'

'No,' agreed Miss Finlayson. She was looking distinctly relieved, and the twinkle had come back again into the depths of her eyes. 'I shouldn't worry about that, though, if I were you,' she continued, sitting down and taking the child on her lap. 'Some day, when you are quite grown up, you will be able to understand it; and then we can read it together and help each other over the difficult parts. What do you say to that?'

'I think it will be beautiful; but it's a very long time to wait,' sighed Barbara. 'When do you think I shall be quite grown up? Jill is grown up, and she is eighteen. Shall I be grown up when I am eighteen?'

'We will wait and see,' said Miss Finlayson, but somehow her tone was not encouraging. 'Meanwhile,' she went on, patting the hand that was fearlessly lying in hers, 'supposing we make a bargain that neither of us will read your father's book until we can read it together? You see, if you were to go on reading it now, you might understand it in quite a wrong way, and then you would never be able to help me over the difficult parts.'

Barbara thought about it for a moment or two. 'But _you_ will have to do without father's book all those years!' she exclaimed suddenly.

'I have read it once, you see,' said Miss Finlayson, gravely; 'I think I can manage to wait, if you will wait too.'

Barbara still looked doubtful. 'Do you really think I shall be able to help you over the difficult parts?' she asked.

Miss Finlayson smiled mysteriously. 'Perhaps,' she said. 'One never knows.'

'Then I'll wait till I'm grown up before I read it again,' decided Barbara. 'It would certainly be a pity to spoil father's book by understanding it all wrong.'

'Or by dropping it from the top of other people's ladders,' observed Miss Finlayson. That was all the reproof she gave her; and then she turned briskly to the writing-table. 'Isn't there something you have written for me?' she asked.

Barbara jumped away from her in dismay. 'I quite forgot!' she said penitently. 'I did begin to write something, and then--and then----' She struggled in vain to remember what had happened, and gave it up with a sigh. 'I don't know what I did, but I know I never wrote any more than this,' she added, and produced the sheet of paper in a shamefaced manner.