He nodded his head.
“Be ’oo still frightened ’cos me tummled in? She won’t never go for to do it again. ’Cos whatever would ’oo do wivout me?” said she, trying to console. But he only groaned, and she was sore puzzled.
Then his eyes fell on her little night-dress and on her bare, brown feet, and automatically he said what he would have said on any other occasion:
“Ye didn’t ought to ha’ come out with no frock and no shoes and stockings on,” said he. “Run in directly, like a good girl.”
He spoke in a low, dull voice; but she was reassured at getting the expected scolding, and stopped the whimper that she was about to start upon afresh.
“Ain’t ye comin’?” said she. “I want my breakfast.”
“Well, run in and get dressed, and I’ll get it for ye,” said he.
She looked at him again, still a little puzzled that he did not kiss her, that he did not hasten to do all her bidding, but on the whole consoled, since things seemed to be resuming their ordinary routine of getting dressed and having breakfast.
So she took her finger out of her mouth and gathered up her night-dress again and ran back through the morning dew.
On the threshold she turned to see if he were coming; the sun shone on her golden head and into her blue eyes; her little robe gleamed white in it, but on her creamy cheeks was the flush of recent sleep: she was like the morning dew herself—and like the spring-time.