"Oh, hush, my darling, hush! poor mother!"
"She did often say 'Go away, Nan; Nan is naughty.' But Nan is good, always good; father says so."
"What are you talking to Langley about, you little chatter-box? Here is Jeb whining his heart out for you," called out Mr. Chester from the bank above them. "Stay where you are, pet, and father will come and carry you."
"Father's coming," echoed Nan placidly. She stood quite quiet and patiently while he talked to Langley; but when he lifted her in his arms she seemed to nestle into them with a little coo of content. Once or twice during their walk her father stooped over her and peered into the white sun-bonnet rather anxiously.
"She is not quite as strong as she was, and seems to tire sooner," he said to Langley. "Gertrude tells me I am wrong to let the child go about so much in the heat. But what am I to do? When I leave her at home she makes herself ill with fretting. Naughty Nan," in a tone of infinite tenderness.
"Nan always good," was the somewhat drowsy answer.
"God bless her, so she is, my little white angel. Look at her, Langley; this is just what she does: she always falls asleep in my arms like this. Sometimes she is so heavy that I am obliged to put her down. I wonder how I should feel if I were a poor man on the tramp, with my child in my arms, and the world before me. I wonder, too, what mammie would do without us," as Nan opened her dark eyes, roused by the suppressed vehemence of her father's voice.
"Mammy did say 'Go away, Nan; Nan makes mammy's head to ache.'"
"I am afraid mammy says that far too often," was the somewhat bitter reply. "It seems hard for a mother never to be able to bear her child's presence."
"Hush! Miss Marriott will hear you, Harry!" interposed Langley, gently. Mr. Chester looked round and shook his head.