Roger's right hand in the other.

"I do not care if he _does_ hear me!--yes, I do, though" (giving a great
jump as a door bangs close to me).

Sir Roger is looking down at me with an expression of most thorough
discomfiture and silent pain in his face.

"He did not mean it, Nancy!" he says, hesitatingly, and with a sort of
look of shamed wonder in his friendly eyes.

"_Did_ not he?" (ironically).

A little pause, the position of the japanned candlestick and of Sir
Roger's hand still remaining the same. "_How_ I wish that _you_ were my
father instead!" I say with a sort of sob. He does not, as I fully
expect, say, "So do I!" and I go to bed, feeling rather small, as one
who has _gushed_, and whose gush has not been welcome to the recipient.




CHAPTER VI.


A fortnight has passed. Two Sundays, two Mondays, two Tuesdays, etc.
Fourteen times have I sleepily laid head on pillow. Fourteen times have
I yawningly raised it from my pillow. Fourteen times have I hungrily
eaten my dinner, since the night when I stood in the hall with Sir
Roger's hand in mine, raging against my parent. And Sir Roger is here