,whenthesoundofacoughclosebehindmemademeturnmyhead.Isawagirlsittingonastonebenear;shewasbentoverabook,ontheperusalofwhichsheseemedi:fromwhereIstoodIcouldseethetitle—itwasRasselas;astruckmeasstrange,andsequentlyattractive.Inturningaleafshehappeolookup,andIsaidtoherdirectly—

    “Isyourbookiing?”Ihadalreadyformedtheiionofaskiolendittomesomeday.

    “Ilikeit,”sheanswered,afterapauseofasedortwwhichsheexaminedme.

    “Whatisitabout?”Itinued.IhardlyknowwhereIfoundthehardihoodthustoopenaversationwithastrahestepwastrarytomynatureandhabits:butIthinkheroccupationtouchedachordofsympathysomewhere;forItoolikedreading,thoughofafrivolousandchildishkind;Icouldnotdigestorprehendtheseriousorsubstantial.

    “Youmaylookatit,”repliedthegirl,methebook.

    Ididso;abriefexaminationvihatthetentswerelesstakingthale:Rasselaslookeddulltomytriflingtaste;Isawnothingaboutfairies,nothingaboutgenii;nhtvarietyseemedspreadovertheclosely-printedpages.Ireturoher;shereceiveditquietly,andwithoutsayinganythingshewasabouttorelapseintoherformerstudiousmood:agaiuredtodisturbher—

    “youtellmewhatthewritingonthatstohedoormeans?WhatisLowoodInstitution?”

    “Thishousewhereyouareetolive.”

    “AndwhydotheycallitInstitution?Isitinanywaydifferentfromotherschools?”

    “Itispartlyacharity-school:youandI,andalltherestofus,arecharity-children.Isupposeyouareanorphaeitheryourfatheroryourmotherdead?”

    “BothdiedbeforeIremember.”

    “Well,allthegirlsherehavelosteitheroneorbothparents,andthis