"Ah!" he answered quickly. "You won't like that."
"How do you know?"
"From what you said the other night. You don't like him."
"Is it dreadful to you, if I don't like my father?"
She put it anxiously, with timidity, and he answered,—
"It's inevitable. He hasn't treated you well."
She was staring at him through the darkness, though she could see nothing.
"You are a wizard," she said, "a wizard. Why do you say he has not treated me well?"
"Because I see how you hate him. You would never hate without reason. You are all gentleness. You know you are. You'd go on your knees to the man that was your father, and beg him to be good enough so you could love him. And if you couldn't—George! that settles him. Why, playmate, you're not crying!"
She was crying softly to herself. But for a little unconsidered sniff he need not have known it.