"Frances does want the gift of sympathy," said the squire, once more addressing himself with affection to Ellen. "Do you know, Fluff, that I am in considerable difficulty; in short, that I am going through just now a terrible trouble—oh, nothing that you can assist me in, dear. Still, one does want a little sympathy, and poor dear Frances, in that particular, is sadly, painfully deficient."
"Are you really in great trouble?" said Fluff. She raised her eyes with a look of alarm.
"Oh, I am dreadfully sorry! Shall I play for you, shall I sing something? Let me bring this arm-chair out here by this pear-tree; I'll get my guitar; I'll sing you anything you like—'Robin Adair,' or 'Auld Robin Gray,' or 'A Man's a Man;' you know how very fond you are of Burns."
"You are a good little girl," said the squire. "Place the arm-chair just at that angle, my love. Ah, that's good! I get the full power of the sun here. Somehow it seems to me, Fluff, that the summers are not half as warm as they used to be. Now play 'Bonnie Dundee'—it will be a treat to hear you."
Fluff fingered her guitar lovingly. Then she looked up into the wizened, discontented face of the old man opposite to her.
"Play," said the squire. "Why don't you begin?"
"Only that I'm thinking," said the spoiled child, tapping her foot petulantly. "Squire, I can't help saying it—I don't think you are quite fair to Frances."
"Eh, what?" said Squire Kane, in a voice of astonishment. "Highty-tighty, what next! Go on with your playing, miss."
"No, I won't! It isn't right of you to say she's not sympathetic."
"Not right of me! What next, I wonder! Let me tell you, Fluff, that although you're a charming little chit, you are a very saucy one."