‘Very well. That’s right. Now, don’t you think you had better tell Miss Martindale you are sorry to have kept her all this time?’
She hung her head, and Theodora tried to give him a hint that the apology was by no means desired; but without regarding this, he continued, ‘Do you know I am come from Turkey, and there are plenty of ladies there, who go out to walk with a sack over their heads, but I never saw one of them sit on a tombstone to hear a little girl say the Busy Bee. Should you like to live there?’
‘No.’
‘Do you suppose Miss Martindale liked to sit among the nettles on old Farmer Middleton’s tombstone?’
‘No.’
‘Why did she do it then? Was it to plague you?’
‘Cause I wouldn’t say my hymn.’
‘I wonder if it is not you that have been plaguing Miss Martindale all the time. Eh? Come, aren’t you sorry you kept her sitting all this time among the nettles when she might have been walking to Colman’s Weir, and gathering such fine codlings and cream as Mrs. Martindale has there, and all because you would not say a hymn that you knew quite well? Wasn’t that a pity?’
‘Yes,’ and the eyes looked up ingenuously.
‘Come and tell her you are sorry. Won’t you? There, that’s right,’ and he dictated as she repeated after him, as if under a spell, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, that I was sulky and naughty; I’ll say it next Sunday, and make no fuss.’