We step up softly; and Isabel lays her little hand upon his arm; and he turns, and says—“Well, my little daughter?”
I ask if we may go down to the big rock in the meadow?
He looks at Isabel, and says he is afraid—“we cannot go.”
“But why, uncle? It is only a little way, and we will be very careful.”
“I am afraid, my children; do not say any more: you can have the pony, and Tray, and play at home.”
“But, uncle——”
“You need say no more, my child.”
I pinch the hand of little Isabel, and look in her eye—my own half filling with tears. I feel that my forehead is flushed, and I hide it behind Bella’s tresses—whispering to her at the same time—“Let us go.”
“What, sir,” says my uncle, mistaking my meaning—“do you persuade her to disobey?”
Now I am angry, and say blindly—“No, sir, I didn’t!” And then my rising pride will not let me say, that I wished only Isabel should go out with me.