“Looks as if he had two foreheads!” said Winifred, who couldn’t help laughing at his comical appearance, with part of his baldness showing at front and back of the borrowed hat.
Dorothy laughed, too, yet felt a guilty regret at the way she had spoken to him. She had accused him of “trying to kill her” as well as Gwen and little Grace; but he “kill anything”? Wicked, even to say that.
“There goes John Gilpin, and, girls, I must speak to him. Come—I can’t let him go that way!”
As his “good foot” crossed the threshold Dorothy’s hand was on his shoulder and her voice begging:
“Oh! please, Mr. Gilpin! Do forgive that horrible thing I said! I didn’t know, I didn’t understand, I didn’t mean it—I thought—it looked—Do come back just a minute and let me explain.”
The old fellow turned and gazed into her pleading eyes, but at first scarcely heard her.
“Why, ’tis the little maid! hersel’ that was cryin’ that night on the big railway platform. The night that Robin lad was anigh kilt. Something’s mixed up in me head. What’s it, lassie, you want?”
“I want your forgiveness, Mr. Gilpin. When I saw Gracie on the floor and the broken pot beside her I thought—you’d—you’d tried—and account of your sled hitting Gwen and me—Do come in and rest. You’re worse hurt than anybody thought, I’m afraid. There, there, that’s right. Come back and rest till the team goes into town for the Saturday night’s supplies. It always goes you know, and Michael will get the driver to drop you at your own door. I’m sure he will.”
Obediently, he allowed her to lead him back into the hall and to seat him on the settle beside the radiator. The warmth of that and the comfort of three sympathetic girls soon restored his wandering wits and he was as ready to talk as they to listen.
“You do forgive, don’t you, dear old John?”