“I suppose young Germaine don’t mind,” observed Mr. Toosypegs.
“No. Ray gets fierce, and looks so dark and dreadful that I feel afraid of him then,” said Erminie, sadly. “He always says, when he is a man he will go to England and do dreadful things to them all, because they killed his father. I don’t think they killed him; do you, Mr. Toosypegs? They couldn’t help his being drowned, I think.”
“Well, you know, Miss Minnie,” said Mr. Toosypegs, with the air of a man entering upon an abstruse subject, “if they hadn’t made him go on board that ship, and he hadn’t took anything else, and died, he would have been living yet. He didn’t care about going, but they insisted, so he went, and the ship struck a—no, it wasn’t a mermaid—the ship struck a coral reef—yes, that was it. The ship struck that and all hands were lost. Now, where the fault was, I can’t say, but it was somewhere, Miss Minnie! That’s a clear case.”
And Mr. Toosypegs leaned back in his chair with the complacent smile of a man who has explained the whole matter, to the satisfaction of the very dullest intellect.
Little Minnie looked puzzled and wistful for a moment, as if, notwithstanding all he had said, the affair was not much clearer; but she said nothing.
“You’re his daughter—ain’t you, Miss Minnie?” said Mr. Toosypegs, briskly, after a short pause.
“Whose, Mr. Toosypegs?” asked Minnie.
“Why, him, you know: him that was drowned.”
“No, I guess not,” said Erminie, thoughtfully; “Ray called me his little sister, one day, before grandmother, and she told him to hush, that I wasn’t his sister. I guess I’m his cousin, or something; but I don’t think I’m his sister.”
“Your father and mother are dead, I reckon,” said Mr. Toosypegs.