A soft place in his heart.
"And yet," went on Rumbold, softening still more at the notion that his favourite reading had impressed Ruth more strongly than he had at first assumed, "I do not think yours is lacking in courage. Your father's daughter would dare much in a righteous cause were she called upon to do it. Eh, Ruth?"
She did not answer; but sat gazing dreamily at the fire as it reduced the poor chap-book to a few filmy shreds. "But now, little one," went on the maltster, "to your room. Good-night!" and he bent and kissed her forehead,
"Nay, father!" she rejoined, looking up in surprise; "not good-night yet awhile. 'Tis hours too early."
"I like not thy trick of exaggerating," rebukefully said he. "One hour, and barely, for the clock has already struck seven—it may be sooner—"
"Yes, indeed," briskly interrupted she, "and I am not for going to sleep at sunset, with the little chits of sparrows—"
Cross-questioning.
"And magpies! You grow pert, mistress. Come!" sternly added Rumbold, "I'll have no more of the May-day wantonness we wot of. Do as I bid you."
"But, father—"
"Do you hear me?" thundered the maltster. "I desire to be alone. That is—I need not your company."