Her old look of weariness was creeping back.
"Come, Mercy, tell the truth, you sly little thing—eh?"
She was fumbling his withered roses with nervous fingers. Her throat felt parched.
He looked down at her saddening face, and then muttered, as if speaking to himself: "I told that Bonnithorne this hole and corner was no place for the girl. He should have taken her to London."
The girl's heart grew sick. The book was closed and dropped back on to the table.
"And now, Mercy," said Hugh Ritson, "I want you to be a good little woman, and do as I bid you, and not speak a word. Will you?"
The child-face brightened, and Mercy nodded her head, a little tear rolling out of one gleaming eye. At the same moment she put her hand in the pocket of her muslin apron, and took out a pair of knitted mittens, and tried to draw them on to Hugh's wrists.
He looked at the gift, and smiled, and said: "I won't need these—not to-day, I mean. See, I wear long gloves, with fur wristbands—there, I'll store your mittens away in my pocket. What a sad little soul—crying again?"
Mercy's pretty dreams were dying one by one. She lifted now a timid hand until it rested lightly on his breast.
"Listen. I'm going out, but I'll soon be back. I must talk with Mrs. Drayton, and I've something to pay her, you know."