But there Merrylips spoiled everything. For as she gazed at her father, who was so big and strong and splendid in his officer's dress, she remembered that sad day, months ago, when she had parted from him. She felt that she could not bear it, even for a moment and by way of jest, to have him look at her as if she were a stranger.
So when Sir Thomas turned to look at the little boy of whom Munn had spoken, Merrylips ran to him and caught his hand.
"Daddy! Mine own daddy! Do you not know me, then?" she cried.
Well, for an instant he truly did not, and he was the more perplexed when Crashaw said kindly:—
"Sir, 'tis your s-son Tibbott."
"'Tis the first time ever I heard that I had such a son," Sir Thomas answered.
The way in which he said it was so like him that Merrylips laughed, only to hear him. And then, as he looked on her laughing face, a great light seemed to break upon him.
"Merrylips!" he shouted. "Good faith! And is it thou, brave little wench?"
Merrylips never heard what Lieutenant Crashaw said in the next few minutes to Munn, now that he knew the secret and how he and all Monksfield had been befooled. For she was swept up bodily into her big father's arms, and when next she was stood upon her feet, it was in the west parlor that she remembered.
It was the very room where long ago her mother had told her the dreadful news that she was to be sent to her unknown godmother at Larkland. The parlor had been green that day with the shadows of the vines, but now it was cheery with candles and with firelight. A group of gentlewomen in silken gowns were seated there, and a stout handmaid was in attendance on them.