“Mr Hallett is more like a father to her than a brother,” I replied, as I thought it would be better not to mention John Lister’s name.
“Father—father—” said the old man dreamily. “How curious it must be to feel that one is the father of anything; that it is your own, and that it loves you. Now, do you know, Grace, I never thought of that before.”
“You have always been such a business man, Mr Rowle,” I said.
“Yes—yes, grinding on every day, without a thought of anything but other people’s mistakes, and none about my own. You like little Miss Linny there—downstairs?”
“Oh yes,” I cried; “she always seems to have been like a sister ever since I knew her.”
“Hum! Hah! Yes! Like a sister,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, she’s a very nice little girl, Grace, and I like her; but you need not tell her so.”
“Oh no, of course not, Mr Rowle,” I said, laughing. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“Yes, my boy, directly.
“But look here, Grace,” he continued, fumbling in his pocket, and bringing out a newspaper slip. “Hum! hah! oh, here it is. Read that.”
He pointed to an advertisement of an elderly couple without children, wishing to adopt a young girl; and I read it, and then looked at him wonderingly.