'She is no child,' answered the younger man, sternly; 'and you know it.'
'To me she is.'
'I care not what she is to you; but she shall not be more to me.'
'More to you?'
'No more than any other pretty piece of wax-work,' replied Waring, striding away into the gray mist.
Silver came to breakfast radiant, her small head covered from forehead to throat with the winding braids of gold, her eyes bright, her cheeks faintly tinged with the icy water of her bath. 'Where is Jarvis?' she asked.
'Gone hunting,' replied old Fog.
'For all day?'
'Yes; and perhaps for all night. The weather is quite mild, you know.'
'Yes, papa. But I hope it will soon be cold again; he cannot stay out long then,' said the girl, gazing out over the ice with wistful eyes.