"You see a very stubborn man, one who has made few friends in life, and who has met with much tribulation in his journey," said he; "you see a man who will do his duty by you, but will not be a gentle father—a man who will never win a daughter's love, and will not let the daughter take the first place in his heart, lest she should wean him too much from the pursuit of sin, and slacken his zeal in the good cause. A man who is poor—who cannot offer you a home much better than this—a man disagreeable, irritable, and obstinate—is he worth calling father?"
"Yes."
"Thank God you say so; it is very horrible to feel alone in the world."
The disagreeable, irritable, and obstinate man, shook Mattie by both hands, kissed her suddenly on the forehead, drew forth a cotton handkerchief, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose vigorously; finished by producing a shabby leather purse, and taking some silver therefrom, which he placed on the mantel-piece.
"My child!—at my expense all future housekeeping. Young woman," to Ann Packet, "you'll draw from that small amount for the future."
"I'm sure I shan't!"
"Eh!—what?"
"I've taken care of her, and been a mother to her for the last four weeks, and you're not a-coming in here all at once, and stealing every bit of comfort away from me!"
"Who is this?" he asked of Mattie.
"A faithful friend, without whom I might have died."