Altogether she makes a picture--this little girl, with her brilliant eyes, and mutinous mouth, and soft black clinging gown.

Dainty-sweet she looks, "Sweet as is the bramble-flower." "Yes," says the professor, in a hesitating way, as if by no means certain of the fact.

He is so vague about it, indeed, that "some one's" dark eyes take a mischievous gleam.
"Are you _sure_ ?" says she, and looks up at him suddenly, a little sideways perhaps, as if half frightened, and gives way to a naughty sort of little laugh.

It rings through the room, this laugh, and has the effect of frightening her _altogether_ this time.

She checks herself, and looks first down at the carpet with the big roses on it, where one little foot is wriggling in a rather nervous way, and then up again at the professor, as if to see if he is thinking bad things of her.