“Look here, Lizzie, I'm your guest, and I'm also your brother; but if you bully that unfortunate youngster, I'll just get into my saddle again, and ride off without putting my foot over your threshold.”
Mrs Westonley's pale, clear-cut face flushed deeply. “I never expected such a remark as this from you, Thomas.”
“And I never expected that you would have treated your own sister's child as you have done,” was the stern reply; “I found her five miles from here, wandering alone. Have you no love or sympathy in your heart, or compassion for children, because you have none yourself?” and the grey eyes flashed.
Mrs Westonley gazed at him in astonishment, and twined her hands together in mingled anger and fear that this brother—fifteen years younger than herself—should so dare to speak to her.
“The child is a great trial——”
“Aye, an 'incubus,' you call her, the poor little mite. But I hardly thought you read novels.”
“I read novels! Never! What do you mean?”
Gerrard drew her inside the house, and patted her cheek, ready to forgive.
“Oh, I did read a book somewhere about a stepmother or an aunt or something of the kind, who was always talking about some unfortunate child committed to her care, as an 'incubus.' Now, that's all I have to say. I love the kid already. She has Mary's eyes and Mary's voice, and, if you don't want her I do. When will breakfast be ready, old girl?”
“Eight o'clock,” said Mrs Westonley faintly, wondering if she were awake or dreaming. Who but this handsome, sunburnt brother would dare to lecture her, and then wind up by addressing her as “old girl”!