"In that case, I have something to ask you."
"A request?"
"A little request."
But I know her little request—to fly off to where her mother is, and play a little trick on her step-father.
"Why not?" I say to her. "With the greatest of pleasure. You may leave it to me, little fool. I can do something which they will not forget in a hurry."
"Not them, him alone," pleads Busie. But I do not give in so readily. When I get into a temper it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for what she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman? The idea of marrying another man and going off with him, the devil knows where, leaving her child behind, and never even writing a letter! Did any one ever hear of such a wrong?
. . . . .
I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as if dogs were gnawing at me, but it was too late. Busie had covered her face with her two hands. Was she crying? I could have torn myself to pieces. What good had it done me to open her wound by speaking of her mother? In my own heart I called myself every bad name I could think of: "Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat, Good-for-nothing, Long-tongue." I drew closer to Busie, and took hold of her hand. I was about to say to her, the words of the "Song of Songs":
"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice."
Suddenly—How do my father and mother come here?