Nothing was said about Piers until after dinner, which was hurried forward at the Squire’s request; but afterwards, when he sat at the open casement smoking, he called Kate to him. He took her on his knee and whispered, “Kate, there is somebody coming this afternoon.”
“Yes,” she said, “we have sent word to Annie. She will be here.”
“I was not thinking of Annie. I was thinking of thee, my little maid. There is somebody coming to see thee.”
“You can’t mean Piers? Oh, Father, do you mean Piers?”
“I do.”
Then she laid her cheek against his cheek. She kissed him over and over, answering in low, soft speech, “Oh, my good Father! Oh, my dear Father! Oh, Father, how I love you!”
“Well, Kitty,” he answered, “thou dost not throw thy love away. I love thee, God knows it. Now run upstairs and don thy prettiest frock.”
“White or blue, Father?”
“Well, Kitty,” he answered, with a thoughtful smile, “I should say white, and a red rose or two to match thy cheeks, and a few forget-me-nots to match thy eyes. Bless my heart, Kitty! thou art lovely enough any way. Stay with me.”
“No, Father, I will go away and come again still lovelier;” and she sped like a bird upstairs. “It may be all wrong,” muttered the Squire; “but if it is, then I must say, wrong can make itself very agreeable.”