Then he
did not know what he was doing.
Connie was the last to bear him malice for what--like many other little
girls of her class--she considered he could not help. Most of the
children in the courts and streets around had fathers who drank. It
seemed to Connie and to the other children that this was a necessary
part of fathers--that they all took what was not good for them, and were
exceedingly unpleasant under its influence.
She stood now by the window, and Harris sank into a chair. Then he got
up restlessly.
"I be goin' out for a bit, lass," he said. "You stay 'ere."
"Oh, please, father," said Connie, "ef you be goin' out, may I go 'long
and pay Giles a wisit? I want so much to have a real good talk with
him."
When Connie mentioned the word Giles, Harris gave quite a perceptible
start. Something very like an oath came from his lips; then he crushed
back his emotion.
"Hall right," he said; "but don't stay too long there. And plait up that
'air o' yourn, and put it tight round yer 'ead; I don't want no more
kidnappin' o' my wench."
There was a slight break in the rough man's voice, and Connie's little
sensitive heart throbbed to the tone of love. A minute later Harris had
gone out, and Connie, perceiving that it was past four o'clock, and that
it would not be so very long before Sue was back from Cheapside,
prepared to set off in quite gay spirits to see little Giles.
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