“Quite, Uncle,” I said. “I have finished now.”
He looked up at me for a moment, and then fell to stroking Lilla’s golden hair.
“Well, lad, I’m sorry,” he said, after a pause; “but I may as well tell you, and be out of my misery. But don’t think I blame you, lad—don’t think I blame you, for I suppose it was to be.”
“What is it, Uncle?” I said in an indifferent tone. “No new trouble, I hope?”
He glanced at me in a sadly disappointed way, and then said sternly:
“I don’t reproach you, Harry; but that blow you struck Garcia has been my ruin, unless I buy his favour with this.”
As he spoke he laid his hand tenderly upon Lilla’s head, then drew her to him and kissed her lovingly.
“But we can’t do that, my little lamb—we can’t do that,” he continued. “We are to be turned out of the place; but I daresay there’s a living to be got—eh, Harry? You’ll not leave us, I suppose, now we’re in trouble? You said you would not, and now, my lad, is the time to put you to the proof. You’ll work now, won’t you?”
“Not if I know it, Uncle,” I said coolly. “Why should I work? I’m much obliged for your hospitality; but I feel now disposed to go back to England, and the sooner the better.”
My uncle did not speak, and a dead silence fell upon all. I caught one sad, reproachful glance from Lilla’s eyes; and then she clung, weeping and whispering to my uncle, who, however, only shook his head.