"Oh, grandpa!" said the little girl, laying one hand again pleadingly on his knee; "I didn't mean I mean I was speaking in general I wasn't thinking of myself in particular."
"I know, dear!" said he, as before taking the little hand in his own, and moving it softly up and down on his knee. But the action was sad, and there was the same look of sorrowful stern anxiety. Fleda got up and put her arm over his shoulder, speaking from a heart filled too full.
"I don't want aunt Lucy I don't care about aunt Lucy, I don't want anything but you, grandpa. I wish you wouldn't talk so."
"Ah well, dear," said he, without looking at her, he couldn't bear to look at her, "it's well it is so. I sha'n't last a great while it isn't likely and I am glad to know there is some one you can fall back upon when I am gone."
Fleda's next words were scarce audible, but they contained a reproach to him for speaking so.
"We may as well look at it, dear," said he, gravely; "it must come to that - sooner or later but you mustn't distress yourself about it beforehand. Don't cry don't dear!" said he, tenderly kissing her. "I didn't mean to trouble you so. There there look up, dear let's take the good we have and be thankful for it. God will arrange the rest, in his own good way. Fleda! I wouldn't have said a word if I had thought it would have worried you so."
He would not indeed. But he had spoken as men so often speak, out of the depths of their own passion or bitterness, forgetting that they are wringing the chords of a delicate harp, and not knowing what mischief they have done till they find the instrument all out of tune, more often not knowing it ever. It is pity, for how frequently a discord is left that jars all life long; and how much more frequently still the harp, though retaining its sweetness and truth of tone to the end, is gradually unstrung.
Poor Fleda could hardly hold up her head for a long time, and recalling bitterly her unlucky innocent remark which had led to all this trouble, she almost made up her mind, with a certain heroine of Miss Edgeworth's, that "it is best never to mention things". Mr. Ringgan, now thoroughly alive to the wounds he had been inflicting, held his little pet in his arms, pillowed her head on his breast, and by every tender and soothing action and word endeavoured to undo what he had done. And after a while the agony was over, the wet eyelashes were lifted up, and the meek sorrowful little face lay quietly upon Mr. Ringgan's breast, gazing out into the fire as gravely as if the panorama of life were there. She little heeded at first her grandfather's cheering talk, she knew it was for a purpose.
"Aint it most time for you to go to bed?" whispered Mr.
Ringgan, when he thought the purpose was effected.
"Shall I tell Cynthy to get you your milk, grandpa?" said the little girl, rousing herself.