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Then she would sit in her little chair, and take her
sewing, or knitting, or embroidery, and pretend to be all absorbed in
it, while she was listening eagerly to every word that Marcus addressed
to her father, and occasionally looked up at the face of their guest,
and thought how noble it was, and how proud she should be to call
him uncle.
When he spoke to her, as he often did, and asked her about her work, or
her companions, or her studies (upon the latter subject he had grown
quite curious, of late), she would feel that she was blushing, and
answer, with downcast eyes, and be half glad and half sorry when he
ceased to question her, and would then sit and torment herself by
recalling what she had said, and thinking how much it might have
been improved.
A sharp-eyed observer, had such been present, accustomed to studying
the human face and weighing motives, would have been puzzled to guess
the exact nature of the feelings which Marcus entertained for the
pretty, innocent young creature who sat there, always plying her little
fingers at some useful work.


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