"There won't be a storm, will there?" asked Tiny, with a shiver of fear, as the fisherman carefully lifted her in and placed her beside the basket of samphire.
"My deary, if I thought the wind 'ud be even a bit fresh to-night, I wouldn't take yer," said the fisherman, in an earnest tone.
He had never been so tender with one of his own children—unless it was to the little girl lying in the churchyard—as he was to this little waif of the sea; and now, as he pushed off from the shore, he was careful to keep the old boat as steady as possible, and sat watching her little frightened face as he plied his oars. He kept as close to the beach, too, as he well could, just skirting the sand-banks, so that she should have the comfort of seeing the land all the way along.
After a few minutes Tiny grew less frightened, and ventured to ask a question about where they were going.
"Oh, I'll take yer to see Dame Peters while Bob unloads the boat," said Coomber, nodding at her in an approving manner.
"And shall I see the shops?" asked Tiny; for she did not believe what Dick had told her.
"Shops, shops!" repeated the fisherman, resting on his oars for a minute to stare at the little girl. "Well, there's a shop," he said, slowly; "but I don't see what you can want there."
"Do they sell books?" asked Tiny, eagerly.
For answer the fisherman burst into a loud laugh. "What does a little 'un like you know about books?" he said. "But I know of something they do sell, as 'll suit you a deal better; they sell sweets, and almond rock, as well as 'bacca and bread, and you shall have some, my deary."
The fisherman expected a joyous outburst in anticipation of these unwonted dainties, but the little girl said slowly—