"Play here? No, my dears," said the Bishop, promptly; "you cannot. See! I tied my manuscript scissors to my desk yesterday, because— Well, you two boys know why; and now somebody has most impudently cut the string with those very same scissors, and they are off again. This will not do, gentlemen—it will not do."
The Bishop was afraid of no man, woman, or child either; for, strange to say, it is not uncommon to find those who are bold with grown people fearful with little folk.
Mr. Hegan laughed to see his two stormy boys stand staring solemnly and guiltily at their uncle. "I wish I had your royal talent," he said. "I never shall make myself loved yet respected as you do. Once, twenty years ago, you found me shoving about some of your papers on this very desk, and I took a long walk afterward, and crept in at the back door when I came home. I loved you just as dearly, but I never touched your desk papers again, any more than my boys will your scissors."
"Dear! dear! I must have a frightful temper," said the Bishop, easily. "Tom, suppose you wake Joan. But the child has a lovely face when she sleeps awake, hasn't she?"
"Joan!" called Mr. Hegan; "my child!"
Joan turned with a start. She had been standing gazing up at a picture that hung over the Bishop's head. The painting was a spiritual yet spirited conception of the manly Maid of Orleans, with a peculiarly delicate shading of her womanliness into the warlike pose.
"Father," said Joan, as she turned—her voice cooed like a wood-pigeon's—"did you ever see such a perfect picture? Can't the children go out now? They are getting so fritty in the house."
There was no break between the sentences, only a change of tone.
"Fritty?" asked her uncle. "What's fritty, pray?"
"I don't know. I always say that. Frightfully fretful, I suppose. They certainly are that. It's not really raining now, father." She walked to the window. "Just a kinder drizzle-drazzle, slightly drippy-drap."