Sibyl turned pale as Scott continued to speak in an impressive voice.
“Dear, dear, it is quite dreadful,” she said, “I could cry about it, I could really, truly.”
“But why, Missy? What’s up? I don’t like to see a little lady like you a-fretting.”
“Mr. Scott, I’m awfully, awfully sorry; I am terribly afraid I can’t go.”
Old Scott ceased to delve the ground. He leant on the top of his spade and looked full at the child. His sunken eyes seemed to burn into hers.
“You promised you’d go,” he said then slowly.
“I did, I certainly did, but mother was to have gone with me, and she has had to go to town about the bazaar. I suppose you couldn’t take back the apples with you when you go home to-night, Mr. Scott?”
“I could not,” answered the old man. He began to dig with lusty and, in the child’s opinion, almost venomous vigor.
“Besides,” he added, “it wouldn’t be the same. It’s you he wants to see as much as the fruit. If I was a little lady I’d keep my word to the poor. It’s a dangerous thing to break your word to the poor; there’s God’s curse on them as do.”