Mrs. Plunkett paused to take breath, and Marion said in a slow, gentle way that seemed years older than her little self, "I don't think they hate me, mother."
"What do you know about it, child?" asked Mrs. Plunkett.
"Because," said Marion, "I looked at them in church, and a butterfly flew in, and went on the side of Murtagh's nose, and I laughed, and he laughed, too, quite kind."
Adrienne could not help smiling at the earnest, half-pleading tone in which the child spoke, but Mrs. Plunkett said: "Nonsense, Maimy, you don't know anything about it! No; I don't believe there's any one in this world they care one bit about, except it is little Frankie."
As Mrs. Plunkett enunciated for the second time her disbelief in the children's powers of affection, some one called from down-stairs, "Marion! Maimy!"
"It's father!" exclaimed the child, springing off her chair. "Back already! Yes, father, I'm coming. Nurse, my slippers please, quick!"
But nurse had gone down-stairs to fetch the dried boots, and while Marion went to the cupboard to find her own slippers, a firm regular step quickly ascended the staircase, and Mr. Plunkett entered the nursery, holding in his hand the very branch of roseberries which had brought about all the wet feet.
Adrienne had been surprised at the voice in which Marion's name had been called; it was scarcely to be recognized as belonging to the stern man she had seen that morning. But she was still more surprised to see the soft beaming welcome that broke out over little Marion's face as her father entered the room.
She was sitting on the floor, putting on her slippers, one little blue leg stretched out, the other doubled up to enable her to button the strap. She did not jump up to kiss her father, but she turned her face up towards him, with a sweet glad look in her eyes.
"Are you going to have dinner with us after all, Fardie?" she asked.