“My father says that he does not wish that I should be acquainted with Mrs. Stokes,” said Lucy.
“Your father! Nonsense, child. Your father has lived all his life in the country, the Lord knows where; he has not lived in York, as I have; so how can he know any thing upon earth of the world?—what we call the world, I mean.”
“I do not know, cousin Milly, what you call the world; but I think that he knows more of Mrs. Stokes than I do; and I shall trust to his opinion, for I never knew him speak ill of any body without having good reason for it. Besides, it is my duty to obey my father.”
“Duty! La! Gracious me! She talks as if she was a baby in leading-strings,” cried Miss Milly, laughing; but she was mortified at observing that Marvel did not join, as she had expected, in the laugh: so she added, in a scornful tone, “Perhaps I’m in the wrong box; and that Mr. Marvel is one of them that admires pretty babes in leading-strings.”
“I am one of those that admire a good daughter, I confess,” said Marvel; “and,” said he, lowering his voice, “that love her too.”
Miss Milly coloured with anger, and Lucy with an emotion that she had never felt before. As they returned home, they met Mr. Harrison, and the moment Marvel espied him he quitted the ladies.
“I’ve something to say to you, Mr. Harrison. I should be glad to speak a few words to you in private, if you please,” cried he, seizing his arm, and leading him down a by-lane.
Mr. Harrison was all attention; but Marvel began to gather primroses, instead of speaking.
“Well,” said Mr. Harrison, “did you bring me here to see you gather primroses?”
After smelling the flowers twenty times, and placing them in twenty different forms, Marvel at last threw them on the bank, and, with a sudden effort, exclaimed, “You have a daughter, Mr. James Harrison.”