“What made you come to England?” asked Robert.
“What made me? Why, there was Maimie to see after, for one thing. And I wanted a look at the old country. I told the child I should come,—didn’t I, Maimie?”
“Yes, but you never wrote, father, so I thought you could not have meant it,” Maimie said, a touch of resentment showing in her manner.
“Couldn’t be bothered to write,—I never can,—it’s too much trouble.” There spoke the selfishness of the man. I looked back, in thought, to the first months after Maimie’s arrival, and remembered how happy a few lines might have made the poor child. But evidently Churton had no idea of blaming himself.
“Of course I meant it. You didn’t think I had forgotten my little dove.” He spoke the words in a manner more like the Churton of my young days. “Come here, child; I want a look at you.”
Maimie obeyed, not without an effort. He took hold of her arm, turned her round, and surveyed her from head to foot.
“Upon my word, you’re an uncommonly pretty creature; but London has left you no roses. You had plenty when I first saw you.”
“Never, since my mother’s death,” murmured the girl.
“To be sure,—yes,—that did knock you down a good deal. That was one reason why I thought a change to England would do you good. She was getting morbid,” he explained, looking at Robert:—“always crying, and going for long walks by herself, and poring over goody-goody books.”
Maimie’s eyes flashed. “Father, I used to be reading the Bible.”