Little Fleda was not in the least misanthropical;
she gave her kindly sympathies to all who came in her way on whom they
could possibly be bestowed; but these people were nothing to her: her
spirit fell off from them, even in their presence; there was no affinity.
She was in truth what her grandfather had affirmed of her father, made of
different stuff from the rest of the world. There was no tincture of pride
in all this; there was no conscious feeling of superiority; she could
merely have told you that she did not care to hear these people talk, that
she did not love to be with them; though she _would_ have said so to no
earthly creature but her grandfather, if even to him.
[Illustration: "I wasn't thinking of myself in particular."]
"It must be pleasant," said Fleda, after looking for some minutes
thoughtfully into the fire,--"it must be a pleasant thing to have a father
and mother."
"Yes dear!" said her grandfather, sighing,--"you have lost a great deal!
But there is your aunt Lucy--you are not dependent altogether on me."
"Oh grandpa!" said the little girl laying one hand again pleadingly on his
knee;--"I didn't mean--I mean--I was speaking in general--I wasn't
thinking of myself in particular.
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