"How dare you call my father so?" she said, pretending to be offended; "no; don't let him have any knowledge of this or any other message I may entrust you with in the future."
"He won't; look 'ere Miss, I'll do anything for you, you're a good 'un; and as for your father gettin' anything out of me; I'd as well have the last bone in my body pulled out afore I'd say anything against you or your young man. You're the very picture of your mother, that you are, she was a good woman——."
"Jacques, if you cannot express yourself in English, talk in Guernsey French, as you used to do," she said, for Jacques was showing forth his knowledge.
"What have I said?" he questioned in his native tongue, then he added: "I thought I was speaking well, I beg your pardon if I have offended you, Miss."
"You have not displeased me," she said. "I must go now, or my father will be fretting about my absence. I can trust you?"
"Yes, I will do anything for you. Good-night, Miss."
"Good-night, Maît Jacques."
And, with a light step and a cheerful countenance, she entered the room in which her father was. He was seated in an armchair before the fire-place, his attention centred on a halter which he was endeavouring to manufacture. He did not fail to notice the laughing eyes and the radiant expression of his daughter.
"What has she been about?" he mused, "has she been speaking to that smooth-tongued, stuck-up son of a ragamuffin."
His face assumed a sour expression as the suspicion crossed his mind. After a few moments of silence, he raised his small and constantly flickering eyes, and asked in a sour tone: "Where have you been all this time?"