“What, cross with you?” I exclaimed.
“You were, though, last night,” she said, with a little toss of her well-shaped head.
I thought the time had now arrived for making my little peace-offering; and yet, I felt as shy and nervous about it as did poor “Young John,” the gaoler’s son of the Marshalsea, when he went to call on Little Dorrit’s father in the grand Bond Street hotel, and drew his humble present of a bundle of cigars from his coat-pocket.
“Min,” I said, “you have heard me speak of a clever little bird I had—Dicky Chips?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “You mean the nice little fellow you taught to do so many funny things? Nothing has happened to him, I hope, Frank? I should be so very sorry,” she added, sympathisingly, “for I know you are very fond of him.”
“No,” said I hesitatingly; “nothing has happened to him, exactly; that is, Min, I have brought him over for you; and, unless you accept him, I shall think you are still angry with me, and have not forgiven me.”
I thereupon pulled the little chap, cage and all, out of my pocket, and presented him to her.
“Oh, Frank!” she exclaimed, in her sweet, earnest accents, with a ring of emotion in them. “He’s such a little pet of yours; and you have had him so long! I would not take him from you for the world!”
“Then,” said I, just as earnestly, “you have not forgiven me. Oh, Min! when you promised to do so!” And I took up my hat as if to go away.
We argued the point; but, the end of the matter was, that Dicky Chips was made over to his new mistress, with all his goods, chattels, and appurtenances. A happy bird he might consider himself henceforth, I knew. He would be idolised—a very nice situation, indeed, for a bullfinch!