Mr. Teesdale was watching her narrowly as he leant back in his chair. She did not look to him as though she had been sleeping; but that was of course his own fancy. On the other hand, the strange expression in Missy's eyes, which he could not quite define, struck the old man as stranger and more conspicuous than ever.
“I'm afraid, my dear, that you haven't been getting your proper sleep lately.”
“You're right. There's no peace for the wicked these red-hot nights, let alone the extra wicked, like me.”
“Get away with you!” said old Teesdale, laughing at the grave girl who was staring him in the face without the glimmer of a smile.
“Get away I will, one of these days; and glad enough you'll be when that day comes and you know all about me. I've always told you a day like that would come sooner or later. It might come to-morrow—it might come to-night!”
“Missy, my dear, I do wish you'd smile and show me you're only joking. Not that it's one of your best jokes, my dear, nor one of your newest either. Ah, that's it—that's better!”
She had jumped up to look once more out of the window: a man was passing towards the hen-yard, it was little Geordie, and Missy sat down smiling.
“Then tell me what it is you're busy with,” she began in a different tone; an attempt at the old saucy manner which the farmer loved as a special, sacred perquisite of his own.
“Now you're yourself again! I'm writing a long, long letter, Missy. Guess who to?”
“To—to Mr. Oliver?”