“I do,” he cried, harshly.
“And you don’t in your heart think that I have been to see Gil.”
“I tell thee, I do,” he cried.
“And what is more, you don’t think your little girl would play you false.”
“What?” he cried, “has not Gil been at thy window?”
“Yes, father,” she said; “as he has scores of times when we were boy and girl together; but I have bidden him come no more. I never thought harm of it—only that it was pleasant folly,” she added, dreamily.
“Out upon such folly!” he cried.
“Gil will not come again, and I shall try to see him no more, dear, till you bid us meet; and you do not believe that I should ever deceive you.”
“You turn me round your finger, child,” he cried, catching her to his breast, and kissing her passionately. “No, no, no; I don’t believe you went to that old woman for such trash, nor to meet Gil Carr. I know you couldn’t deceive me, my darling; and if I am harsh to thee it is for thy good. Ah! Tit, Tit, what a little witch thou art!”
“Don’t, father!” she cried, starting from him with a cry of pain.