'No; but dear old grandada!...'
The course of her mind was obvious. I would rather have had her less abrupt and more personal in revealing it. I stammered something.
'Heriot does not know you as I do,' she said, strangling a whimper. 'I was sure it was serious, though one's accustomed to associate princesses with young men's dreams. I fear, Harry, it will half break our dear old grandada's heart. He is rough, and you have often been against him, for one unfortunate reason. If you knew him as I do you would pity him sincerely. He hardly grumbled at all at your terribly long absence. Poor old man! he hopes on.'
'He's incurably unjust to my father.'
'Your father has been with you all the time, Harry? I guessed it.'
'Well?'
'It generally bodes no good to the Grange. Do pardon me for saying that. I know nothing of him; I know only that the squire is generous, and THAT I stand for with all my might. Forgive me for what I said.'
'Forgive you—with all my heart. I like you all the better. You're a brave partisan. I don't expect women to be philosophers.'
'Well, Harry, I would take your side as firmly as anybody's.'
'Do, then; tell the squire how I am situated.'