“Come, Sibyl, shall we make a compromise? I like you, I want you to like me. Forget that I said what I myself have forgotten, and believe that I have a very great respect for your father. Come, if he were here, he would ask you to be friendly with me.”
“Would he?” said the child. She looked wistful and interested. “There are lots of things I want to be ’splained to me,” she said. Then, after a moment—“I’ll think whether I’ll be friends with you, and I’ll let you know, may be to-morrow.”
As she said the last words she pushed aside his detaining hand, and ran out of the summer-house. He heard her eager, quick steps as she ran away, and a moment later there came her gay laughter back to him from the distance. She had joined the other children, and was happy in her games.
“Poor little maid!” he said to himself, and he sat on grave and silent. He did not like to confess it, but Sibyl’s words had affected him.
“The faith she has in that poor fellow is quite beautiful,” was his inward thought; “it seems a sin to break it. If he does go to Queensland it will be broken, and somewhat rudely. I could send Atherton. Atherton is not the man for our purpose. His report won’t affect the public as Ogilvie’s report would, but he has never yet been troubled by conscience, and Sibyl’s faith will be unshaken. It is worth considering. It is not every man who has got a little daughter like Sibyl.”
These thoughts came and worried him; presently he rose with a laugh.
“What am I,” he said to himself, “to have my way disturbed by the words of a mere child?” And just then he heard the soft rustle of a silk dress, and, looking up, he saw the pretty face of Mrs. Ogilvie.
“Come in and sit down,” he said, jumping up and offering her a chair. “It is cool and yet not draughty in here. I have just had the pleasure of a conversation with your little daughter.”
“Indeed! I do hope she has been conducting herself properly.”
“I must not repeat what she said; I can only assure you that she behaved charmingly.”