“Come and give me a kiss, Miss Sylvia!” cries Frere. “You haven't forgotten me, have you?”
But the child, resting one hand on her father's knee, surveyed Mr. Frere from head to foot with the charming impertinence of childhood, and then, shaking her head, inquired: “Who is he, papa?”
“Mr. Frere, darling. Don't you remember Mr. Frere, who used to play ball with you on board the ship, and who was so kind to you when you were getting well? For shame, Sylvia!”
There was in the chiding accents such an undertone of tenderness, that the reproof fell harmless.
“I remember you,” said Sylvia, tossing her head; “but you were nicer then than you are now. I don't like you at all.”
“You don't remember me,” said Frere, a little disconcerted, and affecting to be intensely at his ease. “I am sure you don't. What is my name?”
“Lieutenant Frere. You knocked down a prisoner who picked up my ball. I don't like you.”
“You're a forward young lady, upon my word!” said Frere, with a great laugh. “Ha! ha! so I did, begad, I recollect now. What a memory you've got!”
“He's here now, isn't he, papa?” went on Sylvia, regardless of interruption. “Rufus Dawes is his name, and he's always in trouble. Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him. Danny says he's queer in his mind.”
“And who's Danny?” asked Frere, with another laugh.