"I was going out this afternoon," said Boodles, tugging at her hair with a comb. "But if you have got one of your umpy-umpy fits I shall stop at home. I want to go, daddy-man, 'cause my boy hasn't got much longer at home, and he says it is nice to have Boodles with him, and Boodles thinks, it is nice too."
"Boodle-oodle, my darling," quavered Weevil, "the sun may be shining outside, but it is damp and clammy in here. The Brute has got hold of me again."
"No, it isn't clamp and dammy, daddy," she laughed. "It's only a stupid old cloud going by. There are lots of butterflies, if you will look out. See! I can nearly tread upon my hair. Isn't it butiful?"
"You must try and grow up, little girl."
"Not till I'm twenty," said she.
"You mustn't laugh so much, my little maid."
"Why, daddy?" she cried quickly. "You mustn't say that. Oh, I don't laugh too much; I couldn't. I'm not always so very happy when I laugh, because it's not always afternoon out with me, but it does us good to make believe, and I thought it helped you to forget things. You telling me I mustn't laugh! You've been and killed a mouse."
"They say fair-haired girls don't feel it like the dark-haired ones," muttered Weevil.
"What are you talking about?" cried Boodles. She had stopped laughing. The clouds were coming up all round and it was nearly snow time; and there is little laughter in a Dartmoor winter. "Is it the Brute, daddy?" she said sympathetically.
"Yes, Boodle-oodle," said the sorrowful old man, with his nervous grin. "It is the Brute."