“Yes, father,” she said, smiling, though it was plain to see that the smile was forced. “Yes, father, you always like to watch the bees.”
“I do, my bairn, I do. They’re just like so many workmen in a factory; but they don’t strike, my gal, they don’t strike.”
“But they swarm, father,” said Daisy, making an effort to keep up the conversation.
“Yes,” chuckled Joe, taking hold of the hand that rested on his left shoulder. “Yes, my bairn, I was just coming to that. They swarm, don’t they?”
“Yes, father.”
“And do you know why they swarm, Daisy?”
“Yes, father; because the hive is not big enough for them.”
“Yes, yes,” chuckled Joe, patting the hand, and holding it to his rough cheek. “You’re raight, but it’s something more, Daisy: it’s the young ones going away from home and setting up for theirselves—all the young ones ’most do that some day.”
The tears rose to Daisy’s eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, for Joe had touched on a tenderer point than he imagined; but he held it tightly and gave it a kiss.
“There, there, my pet,” he said, tenderly, “I won’t tease you. I knew it would come some day all right enough, and I don’t mind. I only want my little lass to be happy.”