“Last load in all safe?”

“Yes, Dad!”

“Not a drop of rain to wet it, and no hard words to toughen it, eh?”

“No, Dad.”

She gave the answer a little hesitatingly.  She was thinking of Ned Landon.  He caught the slight falter in her voice and looked at her suspiciously.

“Been quarrelling with Robin?”

“Dear Dad, no!  We’re the best of friends.”

He loosened his hand from her clasp and patted her head with it.

“That’s right!  That’s as it should be!  Be friends with Robin, child!  Be friends!—­be lovers!”

She was silent.  The after-glow warmed the tints of her hair to russet-gold and turned to a deeper pink the petals of the roses in the wreath she wore.  He touched the blossoms and spoke with great gentleness.

“Did Robin crown thee?”

She looked up, smiling.

“No, it’s Larry’s wreath.”

“Larry!  Ay, poor Larry!  A good lad—­but he can eat for two and only work for one.  ’Tis the way of men nowadays!”

Another pause ensued, and the western gold of the sky began to fade into misty grey.

“Dad,” said the girl then, in a low tone—­“Do tell me—­what did the London doctor say?”

He lifted his head quickly, and his old eyes for a moment flashed as though suddenly illumined by a flame from within.

“Say!  What should he say, lass, but that I am old and must expect to die?  It’s natural enough—­only I haven’t thought about it.  It’s just that—­I haven’t thought about it!”

“Why should you think about it?” she asked, with quick tenderness —­“You will not die yet—­not for many years.  You are not so very old.  And you are strong.”

He patted her head again.

“Poor little wilding!” he said—­“If you had your way I should live for ever, no doubt!  But an’ you were wise with modern wisdom, you would say I had already lived too long!”

For answer, she drew down his hand and kissed it.

“I do not want any modern wisdom,” she said—­“I am your little girl and I love you!”

A shadow flitted across his face and he moved uneasily.  She looked up at him.

“You will not tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“All that the London doctor said.”

He was silent for a minute’s space—­then he answered.

“Yes, I will tell you, but not now.  To-night after supper will be time enough.  And then—­”

“Yes—­then?” she repeated, anxiously.

“Then you shall know—­you will have to know—­” Here he broke off abruptly.  “Innocent!”

“Yes, Dad?”

“How old are you now?”

“Eighteen.”

“Ay, so you are!” And he looked at her searchingly.  “Quite a woman!  Time flies!  You’re old enough to learn—­”

“I have always tried to learn,” she said—­“and I like studying things out of books—­”

“Ay!  But there are worse things in life than ever were written in books,” he answered, wearily—­“things that people hide away and are ashamed to speak of!  Ay, poor wilding!  Things that I’ve tried to keep from you as long as possible—­but—­time presses, and, I shall have to speak—­”