Little Ann saw it wasn't and she watched him tenderly, catching her breath once quickly. Men had ways of taking some things hard and feeling them a good bit more than one would think. It made trouble many a time if one couldn't help them to think reasonable.
“Father,” she said to Hutchinson.
“Aye,” he answered, turning round.
“Will you tell Mr. Temple Barholm that you think I'm right about giving him his chance?”
“Of course I think she's right,” Hutchinson blustered, “and it isn't the first time either. I'm not going to have my lass married into any family where she'd be looked down upon.”
But that was not what Little Ann wanted; it was not, in fact, her argument. She was not thinking of that side of the situation.
“It's not me that matters so much, Father,” she said; “it's him.”
“Oh, is it?” disagreed Hutchinson, dictatorially. “That's not th' road I look at it. I'm looking after you, not him. Let him take care of himself. No chap shall put you where you won't be looked up to, even if I AM grateful to him. So there you have it.”
“He can't take care of himself when he feels like this,” she answered. “That's WHY I'm taking care of him. He'll think steadier when he's himself again.” She put out her hand and softly touched his shoulder.
“Don't do that,” she said. “You make me want to be silly.” There was a quiver in her voice, but she tried to change it. “If you don't lift your head,” she added with a great effort at disciplinarian firmness, “I shall have to go away without telling you the other things.”