“Bless you, my dear!” she cried. “I’ll—”
“Hush!” whispered Grey. “Here is my father!” The little lady hastily wiped her eyes as she glanced through the veranda, and saw the bent, thin, dried-up figure of the old merchant coming through the burning sunshine past the window, and then he stopped and tapped at the door.
“May I come in?” he said. “I’m not a patient.”
“Yes, yes, come in!” cried Mrs Bolter, cheerfully.
“How do—how do?” he cried, on entering. “Weel, Grey bairnie, how is it with ye?”
He kissed her in his dry fashion, smiling slightly as he smoothed his child’s fair hair, and bending down to kiss her.
“I’m verra hot, and verra dry and parched up like, so I thought I’d joost step in and ask for a glass of watter, and joost a soospeeshun of the doctor’s bad whuskee to kill the insects.”
“Which I’m sure you shall have, Mr Stuart,” cried little Mrs Bolter, eagerly.
“Weel, Grey, my bairnie, ye look red in your een and pale, when you ought to be verra happy to think things are all so pleasant and smooth for you.”
“Indeed, I try to be very happy and contented, father,” she said, with a slight catching of the breath.