He took a turn up and down his little room, and then sought for and filled his pipe.
“Finest lot of trout I’ve caught for months. I should have liked the boy to be here.—Poor little lassie!” he sighed, “how she loves him. Well, he’s a fine fellow and worthy of her.”
He struck the match, raised it to his pipe, and threw it down again, placed his newly-filled pipe on the chimneypiece, and went softly into the passage and upstairs to the door of Dinah’s room, where he tapped, and again before his child answered.
“Coming down, my darling? Supper will be ready directly.”
“Don’t ask me, dear,” she said. “I am so unwell to-night.”
“Her voice is quite changed,” thought the Major. “She must have been crying bitterly.” Then aloud—
“But, Dinah, my dear, don’t, pray don’t take on like this. Come, come, be a dear, strong-minded little woman. Business has stopped him. He’ll be here to-morrow I daresay. Come, I say. I shall be so lonely without your dear face at the table.”
The door was opened softly, a little white hand stole out through the narrow crack, and played about his face for a few minutes caressingly before it was withdrawn.
“I cannot—indeed I cannot come down,” she whispered tenderly; and the hand stole out again, and its back was laid against his lips, for him to kiss it lovingly. “Indeed I am unwell and must lie down again. My head is unbearable.”
“Very well, my dear,” said the Major sadly. “But, Dinah, my little one, don’t—try not to give way like this. Silly girl,” he continued, as he kissed the little white cold hand he held, and laughed. “I’ve a good mind to tell him what a love-sick little goose it is.”