"Father," she said at last, "you don't really want to keep people out of the castle altogether, do you?"
"Certainly not, if they behave themselves," said her father, "but the mischief is that they don't."
"But suppose, father, that there was some one always there to see that they did behave, would you mind?"
"Of course not," replied her father, "but you know, Prissy, I can't afford to keep a man down on the island to see that sixpenny trippers don't pull down my castle stone by stone, or break their own necks by falling into the dungeon."
Prissy thought a little while, and then tried a new tack.
"Father"—she went a little nearer to him and stroked the cuff of his coat-sleeve—"does the land beyond the bridge belong to you?"
Mr. Picton Smith moved away his hand. Her mother used to do just that, and somehow the memory hurt. Nevertheless, all unconsciously, the touch of the child's hand softened him.
"No, Prissy," he said wonderingly, "but what do you know about such things?"
"Nothing at all," she answered, "but I am trying to learn. I want everybody to love you, and think you as nice as I know you to be. Don't you think you could let some one you knew very well live in the little lodge by the white bridge, and keep out the horrid people, or see that they behaved themselves?"