She danced down the stairs when dressed, without any regret for having kept her father waiting. He would eat a better breakfast for a little delay, she said to herself, and satisfied her conscience.
She came into the breakfast-room in a white muslin dress, covered with little blue sprigs, and with a blue riband in her golden hair. The lovely roses of her complexion, the sparkling eyes, the dimple in her cheeks, the air of perfect content with herself, and with all the world, disarmed what little vexation hung in her father’s mood.
‘Do you think Bab will be home to-day?’ she asked, seating herself at the tea-tray without a word of apology for the lateness of her appearance.
‘I do not know what her movements are.’
‘I hope she will. I want her home.’
‘Yes, she must return, to relieve you of your duties.’
‘I am sure the animals want her home. The pigeons find I am not regular in throwing them barley, and I sometimes forget the bread-crumbs after a meal. The little black heifer always runs along the paddock when Bab goes by, and she is indifferent to me. She lows when I appear, as much as to say, Where is Miss Barbara? Then the cat has not been himself for some days, and the little horse is in the dumps. Do you think brute beasts have souls?’
‘I do not know.’ Then after a pause, ‘What was that you said about a pixy?’
‘O papa! it was a dream.’ She coloured. Something rose in her heart to check her from confiding to him what in her thoughtless freedom she was prepared to tell on first awaking.