Poor little foolish thing! He supposed she had been trampled on, as his mother had been. But his mother could defend herself. What chance had this child against the old tyrant! An eager, protective sympathy—a warm pity—arose in him; greatly quickened by this hand and arm that clung to him.
The rain began to drive against them.
"Do you mind getting wet?" he said laughing, almost in her ear.
"Not a bit! I—I didn't mean to give any trouble."
The tone was penitent. Tatham, forgetting all thoughts of admonition, reassured her.
"You didn't give any. Except—Your mother of course was very anxious about you."
"But I couldn't tell her!" sighed the voice on his shoulder. "She'd have stopped it."
Tatham smiled unseen.
"I'm afraid your father wasn't kind to you," he said, after a pause.
"It was horrible—horrible!" The little body he held shuddered closer to him. "Why does he hate us so? and I lost my temper too—I stamped at him. But he looks so old—so old! I think he'll die soon."