“Pa!” said Betsy.
“Sure it is. It took ye some time to recognize yer dad. Wasn’t expectin’ the pleasure, was ye? My! but ye look as neat as a cotton hat. Yer Aunt Kate’s dolled ye up mighty fine. But she can’t hev ye. Ye are goin’ to come along with me. I need ye. I jest been waitin’ till I caught ye off by yerself. They beat me in court this mornin’, but I seen ye comin’ up here afore they done it, and now, by gum, I’ll beat them!”
All Betsy’s heart rose in revolt—to go back to the old days of hunger and rags and beatings! This was not her father. It was the man who had killed her mother by leaving her to starve.
“I’m not going with you,” said Betsy, sturdily.
“Oh, yes, ye air.”
“I won’t go. You went off and left us, and Ma died, and I ’most did. You aren’t my father any longer.”
“Oh, yes, I am, Miss H’ighty-t’ighty, an’ I’d like to hear any one else say I ain’t. A child’s duty is to its dad, and ye air goin’ to come right along with me, and the Court kin go to kingdom come. I got ye a nice new ma, and she’ll curl yer hair fer ye. Ye won’t need yer Aunt Kate.”
Betsy stood aghast. She could not speak for the horror of it all. This father who, in the old days, had beaten her for little or nothing, who had deserted his family, leaving them in the face of dire poverty, taking with him all the money in the house, now claimed her. She was not so young that she had not known and understood it all. She summoned up all the strength of her eleven years.
“I won’t go, I tell you!”
“An’ I’d like to see ye help yerself.” He seized and lifted her from the ground with no effort.