After supper—the usual salt meat and damper—he lit an economical pipe, and tried to talk to Sylvia. “Why won't you be friends with me, missy?” he asked.
“I don't like you,” said Sylvia. “You frighten me.”
“Why?”
“You are not kind. I don't mean that you do cruel things; but you are—oh, I wish papa was here!” “Wishing won't bring him!” says Frere, pressing his hoarded tobacco together with prudent forefinger.
“There! That's what I mean! Is that kind? 'Wishing won't bring him!' Oh, if it only would!”
“I didn't mean it unkindly,” says Frere. “What a strange child you are.”
“There are persons,” says Sylvia, “who have no Affinity for each other. I read about it in a book papa had, and I suppose that's what it is. I have no Affinity for you. I can't help it, can I?”
“Rubbish!” Frere returned. “Come here, and I'll tell you a story.”
Mrs. Vickers had gone back to her cave, and the two were alone by the fire, near which stood the kettle and the newly-made damper. The child, with some show of hesitation, came to him, and he caught and placed her on his knee. The moon had not yet risen, and the shadows cast by the flickering fire seemed weird and monstrous. The wicked wish to frighten this helpless creature came to Maurice Frere.
“There was once,” said he, “a Castle in an old wood, and in this Castle there lived an Ogre, with great goggle eyes.”