Still holding the little menacing hands, he sat down and took her upon his knee. “Did you wish to kill me with that razor?” he asked.
“No; myself,” she said with a sob. “I’m tired o’ living.”
Tired of living because she fancied that he had ceased to love her. “Zilla,” he said, “I have a dev—a demon of a temper.”
For answer the child buried her face, as he uneasily reflected, in the glossy bosom of his evening shirt front, and wept as if her heart would break. Yet he did not disturb her, except to pat the back of her head and murmur: “Don’t cry, child—you wouldn’t really be angry with me if I got married, would you, Zilla?” he asked, after her passion seemed somewhat subdued. “You know that I hope to make Miss Turner my wife some day.”
“I would not mind her so much,” said the child reluctantly.
“And you would not do anything to hurt her?”
“No.” And she raised her tear-stained face to assure him that she spoke truly.
“No one has been putting nonsense in your head about my marrying you, Zilla?” uneasily.
“Marry you!” she said in accents of the utmost scorn. “I’m not fit enough, and I’m only a little girl. ’Twould be too long to wait.”
“Far too long,” cheerfully. “We’ll get you a husband when you’re ready for one. Sensible men don’t marry babies, or rather young girls.”