“Oh, father—father—father,” sobbed Daisy, letting her face droop till it rested on his head, while her tears fell fast.
“Come, come, come, little woman,” he said, laughing; “thou mustn’t cry. Why, it’s all raight.” There was a huskiness in his voice though, as he spoke, and he had to fight hard to make the dew disappear from his eyes. “Here, I say, Daisy, my lass, that wean’t do no good: you may rain watter for ever on my owd bald head, and the hair won’t come again. There—tut—tut—tut—you’ll have moother here directly, and she’ll be asking what’s wrong.”
Daisy made a strong effort over self, and succeeded at last in drying her eyes.
“Then, you are not cross with me, father?” faltered Daisy.
“Cross, my darling? not a bit,” said Joe, patting her hand again. “You shan’t disgrace the man as has you, my dear; that you shan’t. Why, you’re fit to be a little queen, you are.”
Daisy gave him a hasty kiss, and ran off, while Joe proceeded to refill his pipe.
“Cross indeed! I should just think I hadn’t,” he exclaimed—“only with the women. Well, they’ll come round.”
But if Joe Banks had stood on the hill-side a couple of hours earlier, just by the spot where Tom Podmore had sat on the day of the vicar’s arrival, he would perhaps have viewed the matter in a different light, for—of course by accident—Daisy had there encountered Richard Glaire, evidently not for the first time since the night when they were interrupted by Tom in the lane.
It was plain that any offence Richard had given on the night in question had long been condoned, and that at every meeting he was gaining a stronger mastery over the girl’s heart.
“Then you will, Daisy, won’t you?” he whispered to her.