“You? Oh no! But there is one that would learn me.”
“My little Peggy, you are too Scotch—say teach.”
“Very well, teach if you like, papa; what does the word matter? But may he come to the house, and may I have lessons? I think it is the only thing that is wanted to make me perfectly happy.”
Sir Ludovic smiled. “In that case you had better begin at once. Mr. Ruskin himself ought to teach you, after such a sentiment. At once, my Peggy! for I would have you perfectly happy if I could. Poor child, who knows what may happen after,” he said, meditatively, putting his hand upon her arm and smoothing the sleeve caressingly. Margaret, occupied with her own thoughts, did not take in the meaning of this; but she was vaguely discouraged by the tone.
“You are not like yourself, papa; what has happened?” she said, almost impatiently. “You are not—ill? It is waking up, I suppose.”
“Just that—or going to sleep—one or the other. No, no, I am not ill; yet— And let us be comfortable, my little girl. Draw? Yes, you shall learn to draw, and sit by me, quiet as a little mouse with bright eyes.”
“You said just now I was to make a noise.”
“To be sure, so I did. I say one thing one moment, and another the next; but, after all, they are much the same. So you sit by me, you may be quiet or make a noise—it will be all the same. Your noises are quiet, my Peggy. Your sleeve rustling, your hand moving, and a little impatience now and then, a start and a shake of your little head. These are noises an old man likes when Providence has given him a little girl.”
“But really,” said Margaret, with a crease in her forehead, “really! I am grown-up— I am not a little girl!”
“Well, my Peggy! it will be so much the better for you,” he said, patting her sleeve. Margaret was vaguely chilled by this acquiescence, she could scarcely tell why; and the slight pain made her impatient, calling up a little auger, causeless and vague as itself.