CHAPTER VII.


To me it seemed that I was as old at fifteen as many a girl of eighteen;
I had lived so much with grown-up people; I had received all my
impressions from them. I was very quick and appreciative. I read
character well, and seemed to have a weird, uncanny insight into the
thoughts and ideas of people--into their motives and plans. I had too
much of this faculty, for I was often made uncomfortable because shadows
came between me and others, and because I seemed to feel and understand
things that I could never put into words.

Here is one little instance of what I mean: I stood one afternoon at the
window of my mother's room. The sun was shining brightly on the bloom of
countless flowers and the feathery spray of the fountains; the whole
place looked so bright and beautiful that it was a perfect picture. I
saw Miss Reinhart on the terrace; she was leaning over the stone
balustrade admiring the magnificent view. There was a restless,
disconsolate expression mixed with her admiration, and I knew quite well
the thoughts passing through her mind were, first, a vivid regret that
the place was not hers, then a wonder as to the possibility of its ever
belonging to her. I could read it in the lingering, loving glance she
threw round, followed by the impatient frown and restless movement. The
idea possessed me so strongly that I could not help going to my mother
and clasping my arms round her neck, as though I would save her from all
harm; but I did not tell her why. I had learned my lesson; from first to
last never a word passed my lips that could have grieved her even in the
least, never.