“By the way,” said Mrs. Cameron, with the manner of one who had not heard a word of Helen’s last speech, “is this naughty little girl attached to her father?”
Firefly raised her tear-dimmed face.
“He is my darling——” she began.
“Ah, yes, my dear; I detest exaggerated expressions. If you love him, you can now prove it. You would not, for instance, wish to give him anxiety, or to injure him?”
“Oh, no, oh, no! I would rather die.”
“Again that sentimental exaggeration; but you shall prove your words. If you have not confessed to me before three o’clock to-day all you know about the loss of my treasured dog Scorpion, I shall take you into your father’s sick room, and in his presence dare you to keep your wicked secret to yourself any longer.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that,” said Firefly. “You can’t be so awfully cruel. Nell, Nell, do say that Aunt Maria doesn’t mean that.”
The child was trembling violently; her little face was white as death, her appealing eyes would have softened most hearts.
“Oh, Nell, what shall I do if I make father worse again? For I can’t tell what I know; it would be a lie to tell it, and you said yourself, Nell, that no Maybright told lies.”
Mrs. Cameron smiled grimly.