“D—- the child,” muttered Lumley, as, after giving the candle to his uncle, he turned to the fire; “what the deuce has she got to do with the matter? Charming little girl—yours, madam! how I love her! My uncle dotes on her—no wonder!”
“He is, indeed, very, very, fond of her,” said Mrs. Templeton, with a sigh that seemed to come from the depth of her heart.
“Did he take a fancy to her before you were married?”
“Yes, I believe—oh yes, certainly.”
“Her own father could not be more fond of her.”
Mrs. Templeton made no answer, but lighted her candle, and wishing Lumley good night, glided from the room.
“I wonder if my grave aunt and my grave uncle took a bite at the apple before they bought the right of the tree. It looks suspicious; yet no, it can’t be; there is nothing of the seducer or the seductive about the old fellow. It is not likely—here he comes.”
In came Templeton, and his eyes were moist, and his brow relaxed.
“And how is the little angel, sir?” asked Ferrers.
“She kissed me, though I woke her up; children are usually cross when wakened.”