“I do, though. There, I forgive you. Now what's your crime?”
“I can't go. Forgive me!”
“Can't go?”
“I can't. Forgive me!”
“I'm blessed if I don't believe that vagabond has been here tormenting of you again.”
“Oh, don't miscall him. He is penitent. Yes, Dick, he has been here crying to me—and I can't leave him. I can't—I can't. Dear Dick! you are young and stout-hearted; take all the things over, and make your fortune out there, and leave your poor foolish sister behind. I should only fling myself into the salt sea if I left him now, and that would be peace to me, but a grief to thee.”
“Lordsake, Phoebe, don't talk so. I can't go without you. And do but think, why, the horses are on board by now, and all the gear. It's my belief a good hiding is all you want, to bring you to your senses; but I han't the heart to give you one, worse luck. Blessed if I know what to say or do.”
“I won't go!” cried Phoebe, turning violent all of a sudden. “No, not if I am dragged to the ship by the hair of my head. Forgive me!” And with that word she was a mouse again.
“Eh, but women are kittle cattle to drive,” said poor Dick ruefully. And down he sat at a nonplus, and very unhappy.
Phoebe sat opposite, sullen, heart-sick, wretched to the core; but determined not to leave Reginald.