“I could not, Sir; a prayer you do not say in the middle of the day. Come to-night to my house, and you shall hear me say it.”
This was enough. I interrupted her.
“Darling Mary, it is I who am thy papa.”
“You!” returned she.
I added, “Wouldst thou like me for thy papa?”
The child turned away. “No, Sir; my papa was much prettier.”
I covered her with kisses and tears. She tried to escape from my arms, crying,—
“Sir, you hurt me with your beard.”
Then I replaced her on my knees, devouring her with my eyes, and continued,—
“Mary, canst thou read?”