“Oh, father dear, don’t be cross with me,” she sobbed. “I couldn’t tell you before.”
“Just as if your poor stoopid old goose of a father could be cross with you!” he said, fondling her and drawing her close to his heart. “At least,” he added, “I could be cross, but not with anything you’d go and do. Now, then, what’s the matter?”
“Oh, father, I can never go to the warehouse again.”
“What?” said Dick; “not go—”
“No, father,” she sobbed: “that man—”
She stopped short, and Dick, with his face working, patted her tenderly on the shoulder, and then rolled up his sleeves.
“It’s only father, my precious: tell him all about it,” he whispered.
As he spoke he made a sign to Mrs Shingle to be silent. “That man, father,” she sobbed hysterically—“several times lately—insulted me—dare not say anything—the money—you so poor, dear!”
“Jessie,” cried Dick, in a choking voice, “my poor darling,—if I’d known!”
“Yes, father dear, I know,” she cried, placing her arm round his neck and kissing him tenderly; “but you wanted the money so badly, I would not speak.”