“Of what are you dreaming, Lora?”
“Oh! Is it time to go home, father?”
“Of what are you dreaming, child?”
“Nay, father dear, my dreams are not worth the telling.” And with a pretty air of coaxing the girl turned and laid a hand upon her father’s arm; but he, withdrawing a step, almost sternly persisted,—
“But yet I will know them, Lora. Tell me truly, of what or of whom were you thinking, and why did you look so earnestly over the sea?”
“The moon is rising, father,” stammered the young girl with a piteous attempt at unconcern. “I was looking at her.”
“’Tis not like you, my maid, to trifle and palter in your replies. Will you tell me of what or of whom you thought?”
“Nay, father, if you insist I must obey, but mayhap you’ll be vexed at my thought.”
“Mayhap ’tis my own thought, child. Mayhap I’ve come to wish what you were wishing as you looked over the sea.”