"Well, you know best," said the charcoal-burner. Then he put his hand under the girl's chin and lifted her face until her unwilling eyes looked into his. The scrutiny appeared to console him, and a smile played over his battered features. "Maybe I was wrong," he thought. "Folk are allus clattering."
Mercy made another forced little laugh, and instantly the Laird Fisher's face saddened.
"They do say 'at you're not the same heartsome little lass," he said.
"Do they? Oh, but I am quite happy! You always say people are busybodies, don't you, father?"
The break-down was imminent.
"Why, Mercy, you're crying."
"Me—crying!" The girl tossed her head with, a pathetic gesture of gay protestation. "Oh, no; I was laughing—that was it."
"There are tears in your eyes, anyways."
"Tears? Nonsense, father! Tears? Didn't I tell you that your sight was failing you—- ey, didn't I, now?"
It was of no use to struggle longer. The fair head fell on the heaving breast, and Mercy sobbed.