“If he ever gives her a moment’s pain,” said the old man to himself as he jerked a look up at the mining works, “I’ll kill him.” Then, turning sharply to the fair girl, he said aloud:—“Well, Madelaine, how’s the bon père?”
“Quite well and very busy seeing to the lading of the Corunna,” said the girl with animation.
“Humph! Old stupid. Worrying himself to death money grubbing. Here, Louie, when’s that boy going back to his place?”
“To-morrow, uncle.”
“Good job too. What did he want with a holiday? Never did a day’s work in his life. Here! Hold her, Louie. She’s going to peck,” he added in mock alarm, and with a cynical sneering laugh, as he saw his niece’s companion colour slightly, and compress her lips.
“Well, it’s too bad of you, uncle. You are always finding fault about Harry.”
“Say Henri, pray, my child, and with a good strong French accent,” cried the old man with mock remonstrance. “What would Aunt Marguerite say?”
“Aunt Margaret isn’t here, uncle,” cried the girl merrily; “and it’s of no use for you to grumble and say sour things, because we know you by heart, and we don’t believe in you a bit.”
“No,” said the fisherman grimly, “only hate me like poison, for a sour old crab. Never gave me a kiss when you came.”
“How could I without getting wet?” said the girl with a glance at the tiny rock island on which the fisher stood.