"I suppose cabin passengers might have the smallpox too," said Mr. Thorne, who liked to tease either wife or daughter.
"I offered the Irish girl a quarter, and she wouldn't have it."
"You're too free with your money," said her mother in a tone of complaint that was habitual.
"The girl wouldn't impose on you, Sylvia," said Mr. Thorne. "She's honest. She knew that your hat wasn't worth so much. Now, if you had said fifteen cents——"
"O papa, be still," and she put her hand over his mouth. "I want to propose something."
"Going to adopt the Irish——" But here Sylvia's hand again arrested Mr. Thorne's speech.
"No, I'm not going to adopt her, but I want mamma to take her for upstairs girl when we get home."
Mr. Thorne made another effort to push away Sylvia's hand so as to say something, but the romping girl smothered his speech into a gurgle.
"I couldn't think of it. She's got no references and no character."
"Maybe she has got her character in her pocket, you don't know," broke out the father. "That's where some girls carry their character till it's worn out."