Every evening about nine-thirty passers-by might have seen the flickering glow of the Dean's good-night cigar.

He was not an habitual smoker, but the evening cigar was a sort of nocturnal ceremonial.

It gave him an excuse to step out into the fragrant darkness of the garden walk for a quiet little stroll before bedtime, and usually Miss Daphne would try to join him.
So to-night they paced together, discussing the girl with the red curls who had come to them from far-off New England, in lieu of the boy they had sent for.
"There's no reason," remarked the Dean, reflectively, "why the child should not have a pleasant visit, since she is here.

I have had a long conversation with her, and while I would not say that she was exceptionally--er----" "Bright," suggested Daphne.
"I should like to call it intellectual," the Dean said kindly, "she is keenly impressionable and self-reliant.

I think I may be able to interest her, at least in a simplified course of study.