“Yes, yes,” said the old man impatiently, following his daughter to the door; “go on now. I have business with Woodham. Don’t be so familiar with the work-people,” he whispered, as he closed the door after the girl, who ran lightly to the foot of the great carved oak staircase, to call out merrily,—
“Not ready, Mary?”
“Yes; coming, coming, coming,” and a quaint, mischievous-looking little body came tripping down the stairs, halting slightly as if from some form of lameness, which her activity partly concealed. But no effort or trick of dress could hide the fact that she was deformed, stunted in proportion, and with her head resting closely between her shoulders, which she had a habit of shrugging impatiently when addressed.
“Oh, do make haste, Mary, or we shall have no time before lunch.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve seen him go by.”
“For shame, Mary!” said Claude, flushing. “You are always thinking of such things. It is not true.”
“Yes, it is; and I don’t think more of such things than you do. ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love that makes the world go round,’” she sang, in a singularly sweet, thrilling soprano voice, her pretty but thin keen face lighting up with a malicious smile. But the old song was checked by Claude’s hand being clapped sharply over her mouth.
“Be quiet, and come along. Papa will hear you.”
“Well, I daresay he wants to see his darling married. Take away your hand, or I’ll bite it.”
“You’re in one of your mocking moods this morning, Mary, and you really make me hate you.”