"To be sure I did," for a little fib was needful from the way she looked at me, and the biggest one ever told would have been a charity under the circumstances.
"Pease, old Davy, I'se aye hungy," she went on ere I was right again, "and I 'ants a dink o' yater."
"What a fool I am!" cried I. "Of course you do, you darling. What an atomy you are to talk! Stop here a moment."
Setting her on the seat by herself (like a stupid, as I was, for she might have tumbled overboard), I jumped out of the boat to fetch her water from the spring-head, as well as the relics of my food from the corner of the fish-basket. And truly vexed was I with myself for devouring of my dinner so. But no sooner was I gone, than feeling so left alone again after so much desertion, what did the little thing do but spring like a perfect grasshopper, and, slipping under the after-thwart, set off in the bravest toddle for the very bow of the boat, in fear of losing sight of me? Unluckily, the boat just happened to lift upon a bit of a wave, and, not having won her sea-legs yet in spite of that long cruise, down came poor Bardie with a thump, which hurt me more than her, I think.
Knowing what Bunny would have done, I expected a fearful roar, and back I ran to lift her up. But even before I could interfere, she was up again and all alive, with both her arms stretched out to show, and her face set hard to defy herself.
"I 'ont ky, I 'ont, I tell 'a. 'Ee see if I does now, and ma say hot a good gal I is."
"Where did you knock yourself, little wonder? Let old Davy make it well. Show old Davy the poor sore place."
"Nare it is. Gardy là! nare poor Bardie knock herself."
And she held up her short white smock, and showed me the bend of her delicate round knee as simply and kindly as could be.