"You can't part with me, father, and until you can, I shall never go; so please take your nap. And, father, I'll practise for the five-barred gate, and surprise the hunt next opportunity."
The Squire smiled, and drew a silk handkerchief over his face, and dozed; while Dorothy went on with her work, kept the dogs quiet on the rug, and prevented the logs from scuttling down with crackle and thump on the hearth as they burned away.
Suddenly the silk handkerchief was withdrawn, and the Squire awoke from a dream about thieves and good little daughters.
"But, Dorothy," said he, doubtfully, "if you wanted to go, if some booby that you liked came prowling, what then?"
"Dear father, I shan't like a booby," said Dorothy, with her silvery little laugh; "you are very complimentary in the anticipation of such a monstrous choice."
"Well, well, there's no wisdom in meeting trouble half way; only, my girl, I couldn't tell what you might say to young Hazelwood, if he should dare to tell you what he told me this morning; but I'm glad it's all right, and now I'll finish my nap;" and the handkerchief was drawn over his head again.
Poor Miss Dorothy! The needle had dropped from her fingers, the merry light faded from her eyes, the colour came and went on her cheek. What! Could it be possible?—The handsome, gallant young squire of Hazel Copse, the admired of all the ladies round, the generous, warm-hearted, pitiful young master who excused old Wilks his rent when he fell ill and couldn't work; forgave poor Slade for poaching, and refused to prosecute; saved Widow Crane's boy from drowning, and took care of them all, until Wilks got well, and Slade got honest employment, and the boy came through the fever;—the best huntsman in the field, Captain in the Militia, and the possible choice of the county at the next election;—and more and better than all, the most regular and apparently sincere worshipper in the parish church, and the best helper the vicar had in whatever good he proposed to do. Amazing!
Could this gentleman really have thought of her, the little daisy of the Meade, as some of the silly old people called her? And her father had called him a booby, and she had coolly assented! What a miserable mistake!
But, after all, what did it matter? She could not and would not leave her dear, kind father for any squire in Christendom, so there was an end of that. And Miss Dorothy calmed down, and picked up her fallen needle, and a very soft little sigh escaped as she resumed her work.
The kind old gentleman was not so sleepy as he seemed, and out of the corner of an eye, and a convenient little hole in his India-silk handkerchief, he had carefully watched his child; noting the start, the colour, the expressive mouth as she sat thinking, and his quick ear caught the little sigh. So, after a suitable make-believe sleep, he pretended to awake, shook himself, whistled to his dogs, and went out, thinking hard about what he would have to do next. The simple fatherly heart had no thought of hindering the happiness of others for his own; and feeling in a strange maze upon the subject, he stumbled against the cause of his disquietude.