"Yes, that too."
"But did you ever get a trout to kiss you as I do?"
Which was followed by the usual caress.
"And you won't have such lots of wine; but you know, papa, how angry you used to be when people did not appreciate what you thought was good."
"And where is my little Dove to get her port-wine after dinner on Sunday?" said he.
"You'll see, papa. Just after dinner, when we're all sitting at the table, and you are looking sadly at the dry walnuts, and everybody is thinking about the nice Sundays down in the country, you know, there will be a little rustling, and a little murmur of music in the air—somewhere near the roof; and all at once two bottles of wine will be hung round your neck by the fairies—for it's only you who care about it, you know—and everybody will laugh at you. That is the punishment for thinking about port-wine. Do I want port-wine? You're an old cheat, papa, and try to make me believe I am ill that you may have your port-wine on Sunday. But I am not, and I won't have any extravagance."
He, with a great pain at his heart, saw the forced look of cheerfulness on her sweet face, and made some abominable vow about selling his mother's marriage-ring before Dove should want her port-wine.
Dove was really so well, however, when Mrs. Anerley came, that the anxious and tender mamma was almost at a loss how to expend the care and sympathy with which she had charged herself. It was at this juncture that Will proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Anerley should go and see Annie Brunel, and give her what comfort and assistance lay in their power. And no sooner were the circumstances of the girl's position mentioned, than both at once, and gladly, consented.
"But why not come with us?" said his mother.
"I would rather you went by yourselves. She will be only too grateful if you go to see her. She does not know how to manage a funeral. Then she is alone; you will be able to speak to her better than I, and in any case I must remain with Dove."