"I'm wantin' t' go now, father, if I goes. I'm not wantin' t' wait."
"Bob's t' be home," suggested Mrs. Blake.
"Oh, ho! I see!" he exclaimed. "'Tisn't Bob instead o' Emily you're wantin' so wonderful bad t' see now, is un?"
"'Tis—Emily—I'm wantin'—t'—see," faltered Bessie, blushing prettily and fingering the hem of her apron in which she was suddenly very much interested.
"Bob's a fine lad—a fine lad—an' I'm not wonderin'," said her father teasingly.
"Now, Tom," interceded Mrs. Black, "don't be tormentin' Bessie. O' course 'tis just Emily she's wantin' t' see. She's not thinkin' o' th' lads yet."
"Oh, aye," said he, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye at Bessie, who was blushing now to the very roots of her hair, "I'm not blamin' she for likin' Bob. I likes he myself."
"Well, Tom, be tellin' th' lass you'll take she over. She's been kept wonderful close th' winter, an' the cruise'll be doin' she good," urged Mrs. Black.
"I wants t' go so much," Bessie pleaded.
"Well, I'll ask Mr. MacDonald can he spare me th' day. I'm thinkin' 'twill be all right," he finally assented.