“You've been very, very good to me, Pete, and if I never see you again you'll think the best of me, will you not?”
She had an impulse to tell all—she could hardly resist it.
He smoothed the black ripples of her hair back from her forehead, and said, tenderly, “She's not so well to-day, that's it. Her eyes are bubbling like the laver.” Then aloud, with a laugh, “Never see me again, eh? I'm not willing to share you with heaven yet, though. But I'll have to be doing as the doctor was saying—sending you to England aver. I will now, I will,” he said, lifting his big finger threateningly.
She slid backwards to the ground, but at the next moment was landed on Pete's breast. “My poor lil Kirry! Not willing to stay with me, eh? Tut, tut! She'll be as smart as ever, soon.”
She drew away from him with shame and self-reproach, mingled with that old feeling of personal repulsion which she could not conquer.
Then the gate of the garden clicked, and Ross Christian came up the path. “He's sticking to me as tight as a limpet,” said Pete.
“Mr. Quilliam,” said Ross, “I come from my father this time.”
“'Deed, man,” said Pete.
“He is a little pressed for money.”
“And Mr. Peter Christian sends to me?”