Sibyl seemed to shrink into herself. She looked up at the sky.
“Lord Jesus wouldn’t curse a little girl like me, a little girl who loves Him,” she thought; but, all the same, the old man’s words seemed to chill her.
“I’ll do my very best,” she said, and she went slowly across the garden. Old Scott called after her:
“I wouldn’t disappoint the little lad if I was you, Missy. He’s a-counting of the minutes.”
A clock in the stable yard struck five. Old Scott continued to watch Sibyl as she walked away.
“I could take the apples,” he said to himself; “I could if I had a mind to, but I don’t see why the quality shouldn’t keep their word, and I’m due to speak at the Mission Hall this evening. Little Miss should know afore she makes promises. She’s a rare fine little ’un, though, for all that. I never see a straighter face, eyes that could look through you. Dear little Missy! Dan thinks a precious sight of her. I expect somehow she’ll take him the apples.”
So old Scott went on murmuring to himself, sometimes breaking off to sing a song, and Sibyl returned to the house.