“Then you must be very fond of that girl, I reckon.”
“She is all the world to me,” said Lyon, truly.
“Then he ought to be all the world to you, honey.”
“And so I am,” said Lyon, answering for Sybil, whom he could not yet trust to act a part; though he saw, the instant he glanced at her, that he might have done so; for Sybil, as soon as she saw attention drawn to herself, began to turn her head down upon one shoulder and simper shyly like an awkward rustic.
“You must excuse me for asking so many questions, farmer; but when I see a father and daughter together, like you and your girl, I think of myself, for I have an only daughter of my own. All the rest of my children—and I had a whole passel of boys and girls—are with their dear mother in heaven. So you see, farmer, I am a widower, with one gal like yourself—for I reckon, from what you said, you are a widower?”
“My girl’s mother has been dead many years,” answered Lyon, with a drawl and a sigh.
“Pappy, I’m so hungry and so sleepy I don’t know what to do,” said Sybil, in a low, fretful tone, frowning and pouting.
“Yes, yes, honey; I reckon you are sure enough. So landlord, if you have got a couple of little rooms joining onto each other, I wish you’d let us have ’em. And we’d like a bit of supper besides,” said Lyon Berners, with a sigh and a grunt.
“To be sure. I’ll go and call my girl directly, and she’ll walk up to your rooms while I have the supper got ready. Where would you like to have it? down here, or in your room?” inquired the landlord.
“In your room, Pappy. I hate a place like this a-smellin’ of liquor and inyuns and things, and men coming in and out,” said Sybil, digging her elbow into her “Pappy’s” ribs, and turning up her nose at the little tavern sitting-room.