“Mighty good care thou’lt take, I’ll be bound!”
“Yes, I do, Mr Wastborowe,” replied Cissy, quite gravely; “I dress Father’s meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That’s taking care of him, isn’t it?”
The gaoler’s men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very good joke.
“And who takes care of thee?” asked he.
Cissy gave her usual answer. “God takes care of me.”
“And not of thy father?” said Wastborowe with a sneer.
The sneer passed by Cissy quite harmlessly.
“God takes care of all of us,” she said. “He helps Father to take care of me, and He helps me to take care of Father.”
“He’ll be taken goodly care of when he’s burned,” said the gaoler coarsely, taking another draught out of the tankard.
Cissy considered that point.