Dorothy nodded her drooping head in assent, not possessing sufficient courage to voice her attitude.
"Pray tell me what is your objection to living with me—at least for a portion of each year?"
The child did not immediately answer. The situation was an exceedingly trying one, and she appeared to be turning her father's proposition over in her mind.
At length she lifted her head, and her eyes met his in a clear, direct gaze.
"Where are you going to live?" she questioned, with significant emphasis.
Her companion shrank before her look and words as if he had been sharply smitten.
"That is not the question just at present," he said, quickly recovering himself. "I asked what objection you have to living with me. Don't you love me at all?"
Again Dorothy's head fell, and, pulling the massive braid of her ruddy hair over her shoulder, she stood nervously toying with it in silence.
"Dorothy, I wish you to answer me," her father persisted, greatly irritated by her attitude toward him, and growing reckless of consequences in his obstinate determination to force her to give him a definite answer.
But Dorothy was not devoid of obstinacy herself. She pouted irresolutely a moment; then, tossing her braid back into its place, stood erect, and faced her father squarely.