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 troubled moments and Mary Browning studying him wondered what changes had taken place in his intelligence—if he had progressed as Wilkins’s enthusiasm had seen his progress, or if that brain which Dave had insisted was only dormant were really inert. It was impossible for her to determine.

“Were you happy at school?” she asked.

“No,” he said, but made no explanation.

“Were you unhappy?” she asked after a moment of uncertainty.

Again he answered with a monosyllable, “No.”

“Weren’t they good to you?… Was it hard to learn?”

He ignored the first question, but replied to the second, “Studying was hard—in the beginning. But,” his face seemed to set, to reflect the resolution which had carried him through, “but I learned.”

“Were you lonesome?”

He looked at her with something of surprise and reproach, as if such a question were both absurd and without comprehension. “He was not there,” said Angus.

Mary caught her breath and drew back as from some secret, wonderful recess into which she was forbidden to pry. “Didn’t you like the boys? Wasn’t there fun and games?”

“The boys,” he said slowly, “were all right.”