"I think you are, the whole lot. Well, will you come into the house with me? How did you know the donkey was here? Who told you?"
"He told me," laughed Amy. "Yes, I'll go in if you wish, if I can help you."
"How did he tell you?"
"I was gathering these ferns in the glen, and I heard him bray. See, aren't they beautiful? They're for the table to-morrow. The prettiest ferns in all Fairacres grow along the banks of 'Merrywater.'"
"Yes, I know. I used to gather them when I was a child. My grandmother liked them, though she called them plain 'brakes.' So you're not afraid to trespass, then? And you're able to have a dinner-party even so soon after—and with all the pretended devotion. But Cuthbert—"
Amy's hand went up to her kinsman's lips. It was a habit of hers, sometimes playfully sometimes earnestly used, to ward off anything she did not wish another to say to her, and she had done it before she thought; but having so done she would not withdraw her silent protest. This man should never say, nor would she ever hear, a word against her father. Of that she was determined, even though she must be rude to prevent.
For a moment Archibald Wingate resented the girl's correction. Then, as her hand dropped to her side and her gaze to the ground, he spoke:—
"You are right. I had no business to so speak. I honor you for your filial loyalty and—Come into the house. I have something I wish to discuss with you. So you want to thank me for taking care of Balaam, do you? You may feel differently after you have heard what I have to say. Oh, you did give me a twinge, I tell you!"
"Would it relieve the pain if I bathed the foot for you? Or is there anybody else to do it?"
"Would you do that for me?"