"I thought the little friend who used to sit by my fireside had left me. I missed you, Meg."
"You were tipsy that night," the child answered, with a quaver in her voice that did not take from its severity.
"You punished me hard, Meg. Don't you know I had to drink so many healths. There was the queen's health to drink, and I should have been a disloyal subject if I had not drunk that; and there was the lord mayor's health, I should have been a bad citizen if I had not drunk that; then there were the directors' healths, and there were one another's healths." As Meg remained unmollified, he went on, "Meg, I will tell you a secret. I was not so bad as I looked that night—I put it on a little for your benefit."
"That was wicked of you," said Meg with spirit.
"It was," agreed Mr. Standish candidly. "Come, Meg, won't you forgive me if I promise——"
"You promised before," interrupted the child.
A desire to rehabilitate himself in the child's eyes seized Mr. Standish. He felt a touch of awe of that creature regarding him with steady gravity, and he found himself pleading his cause before her as if she were a little chief justice.
"If he got himself into difficulties for his friends, they were often to be pitied; so many in this world were born weak, like spiritual cripples who needed a helping hand."
"No use to them when they get it," said Meg. "They're always in a muddle."