Suddenly she turned to him and laid her folded arms on his knee and her face upon them, sobbing.
"I oughtn't to have gone," she cried. "I ought to have stayed at home with you, father."
His face flushed, and he was obliged to relieve his feelings by expectorating into the fire.
"Louisianny," he said, "I'd like to ask ye one question. Was thar anybody thar as didn't—well, as didn't show ye respect—as was slighty or free or—or onconsiderate? Fur instants, any littery man—jest for instants, now?"
"No, no!" she answered. "They were very kind to me always."
"Don't be afeared to tell me, Louisianny," he put it to her. "I only said 'fur instants,' havin' heern as littery men was sometimes—now an' again—thataway—now an' ag'in."
"They were very good to me," she repeated, "always."
"If they was," he returned, "I'm glad of it. I'm a-gittin' old, Louisianny, an' I haint much health—dispepsy's what tells on a man," he went on deliberately. "But if thar'd a bin any one as hed done it, I'd hev hed to settle it with him—I'd hev hed to hev settled it with him—liver or no liver."
He put his hand on her head and gave it a slow little rub, the wrong way, but tenderly.
"I aint goin' to ask ye no more questions," he said, "exceptin' one. Is thar anything ye'd like to hev done in the house—in the parlor, for instants, now—s'posin' we was to say in the parlor."