Fluff looked from one to the other, and then she touched Erle coaxingly.
“Do ask grandpapa to be kind to me, Mr. Erle,” she pleaded. “Percy is always cross, but you have been so good to me and Fern.” But a stern voice interrupted her.
“Do you know this child, Erle? she seems to recognize you.”
“Yes, sir,” stammered Erle, losing color now as fast as he had gained it; his embarrassment was not lessened by the look on Percy’s face. “I have seen her when I have been with Percy. She is Florence Trafford, Mrs. Trafford’s youngest child, and I expect what she says is quite true, and that she has come of her own accord, though I have no idea how she found her way here.”
“How should you, Mr. Erle,” returned Fluff, nestling up to her favorite, “when I never told you a word about it, or any of them either? Why, bless me, the stupidest of all those stupid owls in the Zoölogical Gardens, that we laughed at so much, knew more about it than you did. Oh, you need not frown, Percy, you do not come half so often to see poor mother as Mr. Erle does, and he is far kinder to Fern.”
“I think you had better hold you tongue, Fluff,” replied her brother; but he evidently enjoyed the sight of Erle’s discomfiture. “I don’t see why you are to be troubled with this sort of scene,” he continued, addressing Mr. Huntingdon, who was eying Fluff gloomily all this time. “If you wish it I will ring for Roger to take her home.”
“No, no, let her be for a moment,” he replied, quickly; and Fluff, who had looked terrified at Percy’s proposition, came closer and rubbed her curls delightedly against his coat-sleeve.
“That’s right, grandpapa. I have not spoken to you yet, have I? and I have so much to say. I was that little baby you know whom mother carried through the snow that night. Yes,” as Mr. Huntingdon shuddered, “I heard mother tell Fern all about it one night when they thought I was asleep—only I got sleepy and lost half; but I said to myself, ‘I shall go and tell grandpapa that poor mother is very miserable and unhappy, and that he must come and take care of her.’”
“There, there, you have said your lesson very prettily,” observed Mr. Huntingdon with a sneer. “Children are apt parrots;” but Erle saw that his sneer was forced, and that he sat down like an old man, and he said, earnestly:
“Oh, sir, do not think so badly of your daughter. She has not sent the child on this errand. I would stake my life on it.”