them
to you, won't you?" in a beseeching spoiled-boy's voice, very amusing
and endearing to her.

He gave her the "pretty things," whole quantities of them, fine linen
to be made up into underwear, soft white and colored silks and
crepes, which Joan, remembering the few lessons in dressmaking she
had had from Maud Upper and with some advice from Prosper, made up not
too awkwardly, accepting the mystery of them as one of Prosper's
magic-makings. And, in the meantime, her education went on. Prosper
read aloud to her, gave her books to read to herself, questioned her,
tutored her, scolded her so fiercely sometimes that Joan would mount
scarlet cheeks and open angry eyes. One day she fairly flung her book
from her and ran out of the room, stamping her feet and shedding
tears. But back she came presently for more, thirsting for knowledge,
eager to meet her trainer on more equal grounds, to be able to answer
him to some purpose, to contradict him, to stagger ever so slightly
the self-assurance of his superiority.

And Prosper enjoyed the training of his captive leopardess, though he
sometimes all but melted over the pathos of her and had much ado to
keep his hands from her unconscious young beauty.

"You're so changed, Joan," he said one day abruptly. "You've grown as
thin as a reed, child; I can see every bone, and your eyes--don't you
ever shut them any more?"

Joan, prone on the skin before the fire, elbows on the fur, hands to
her temples, face bent over a book, looked up impatiently.

"I'd not be talkin' now if I was you, Mr. Gael. You had ought to be
writin' an' I'm readin'. I can't talk an' read; seems when I do a
thing I just hed to _do_ it!"

Prosper laughed and returned chidden to his task, but he couldn't help
watching her, lying there in her blue frock across his floor, like a
tall, thin Magdalene, all her rich hair fallen wildly about her face.
She was such a child, such a child!

CHAPTER XIV

JOAN RUNS AWAY

It was a January night when Joan, her rough head almost in the ashes,
had read "Isabella and the Pot of Basil" by the light of flames. It
was in March, a gray, still afternoon, when, looking through Prosper's
bookcase, she came upon the tale again.

Prosper was outdoors cutting a tunnel, freshly blocked with snow, and
Joan, having finished the "Life of Cellini," a writer she loathed, but
whose gorgeous fabrications her master had forced her to read, now
hurried to the book-shelves in s