"Well then, to change it," replied Thames, gravely, "suppose I should be obliged to leave you."
Winifred looked as if she could not indulge such a supposition for a single moment.
"Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to what my mother has just said. She has already forgotten it."
"But I never can forget it, Winny. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion."
As he said this, in a low and mournful, but firm voice, the tears gathered thickly in Winifred's dark eyelashes.
"If you are in earnest, Thames," she replied, with a look of gentle reproach, "you are very foolish; and, if in jest, very cruel. My mother, I'm sure, didn't intend to hurt your feelings. She loves you too well for that. And I'll answer for it, she'll never say a syllable to annoy you again."
Thames tried to answer her, but his voice failed him.
"Come! I see the storm has blown over," cried Winifred, brightening up.
"You're mistaken, Winny. Nothing can alter my determination. I shall quit this roof to-morrow."
The little girl's countenance fell.