“Only sometimes, gran’fa; and that’s what made me come to you.”
“You—you haven’t come for the brass?”
“No, gran’fa, I want you to help me, for I’m such a miserable little girl.”
“What about?—what about?” cried the old man, smoking furiously, and staring with a peculiarly angry look at the girl.
“I wanted to tell you, gran’fa,” cried Dally, plumping herself down at the old man’s feet, and laying her rosy cheek upon his corduroy-covered knee, stained with the clay from many a grave. “It’s all such a muddle.”
“What is?—what is?”
“Why, everything,” cried Dally, with a petulant twitch; “but he’s not going to play with me. He’s told me many a time that he’d marry me, and make me Lady Candlish; and he shall, shan’t he, gran’fa?”
“Ay, that he shall,” cried the old man, patting Dally’s curly head. “That’s sperrit, that is. You keep him to it. But what’s all a muddle?”
“Why, everything, gran’fa,” cried Dally, bursting into tears, and speaking in an excited, passionate way. “But he shall marry me; and you’ll help me make him, won’t you, gran’fa?”
“Ay, that I will, my pretty. That’s the way. Don’t you be beat.”