"I should not think it, Mr. McFarlane."
"Daisy, you have à plomb enough for a princess, and gravity enough for a Puritan! I should like to see you when you are grown up,—only then I shall be an old man, and it will be of no consequence. What do you expect to do with that little red head?—now do tell me."
"She don't know anything, Mr. McFarlane."
"No more don't I! Come Daisy—have pity on me. You never saw anybody more ignorant than I am. There are half a dozen things at this moment which I don't know—and which you can tell me. Come, will you?"
"I must go in, Mr. McFarlane."
"But tell me first. Come, Daisy! I want to know why is it so much more wicked to sing a song than to make somebody else singsong?—for that's the way they all do the spelling book, I know. Hey, Daisy?"
"How did you know anything about it, Mr. McFarlane?"
"Come, Daisy,—explain. I am all in a fog—or else you are. This spelling book seems to me a very wicked thing on Sunday."
"I will take it, if you please, Mr. McFarlane."
"Not if I know it! I want my ignorance instructed, Daisy. I am persuaded you are the best person to enlighten me—but if not, I shall try this spelling book on Mrs. Randolph. I regard it as a great curiosity, and an important question in metaphysics."