Mrs. Dott did not answer this question. Instead she turned to her husband.
“Daniel,” she cried, “are you going to stand this? Are you that girl's father, or aren't you? Are you going to make her mind, or not?”
Daniel would have spoken, but his daughter got ahead of him.
“Oh, Father doesn't count,” she observed lightly. “No one minds what he says. He didn't want to move to Scarford at all. No one minds him.”
Serena stamped her foot. “Daniel Dott,” she cried, “do you hear that? I call upon you, as the head of this family, to tell that girl what she's got to do, and make her do it.”
Captain Dan stepped forward. Gertrude merely laughed. That laugh settled the question.
“Gertie,” ordered the captain, his voice, the old quarter-deck voice which had been law aboard the Bluebird, “you march your boots to your room and pack up. We're goin' to Trumet and you're goin' along with us. March! or, by the everlastin', I'll carry you there and lock you in! You speak another word and I'll do it, anyway. Serena, I'll 'tend to her. You're tired out; lie down and rest.”
“But, Daniel—”
“Lie down and rest. I'm runnin' this craft. Well,” wheeling upon his daughter, “are you goin'? Or shall I carry you?”
Gertrude looked at him and then at her mother. Her lips twitched.