Pollypod nodded a reply, and arranged the buttercups and daisies in her hand, without looking at them. Her attention was fixed upon his smart clothes and bright face, and the flowers in his coat. These latter had an especial attraction for her. She thought how pleased father would be if she could take them home to him in the middle of a bunch of buttercups and daisies. But suddenly, as she looked, her face became clouded, and she retreated a step or two.
"What's the matter, little one?" he asked, seating himself upon a tombstone. "You are not frightened of me, are you?"
"I don't know," replied Pollypod; and then, with her finger to her lips, and her head inclined forward, she said solemnly, "Are you the naughty man?"
"What naughty man?" he inquired, amused at the child's attitude and manner.
"The naughty man who won't bury Lily's mother."
The cloud on the child's face was reflected on his as he replied, "No, I am not."
Pollypod came close to him immediately.
"I am glad of that; I'm very, very glad of that!"
"Why, little one?"
"Because I like you."