Accustomed from her babyhood to
petting her father and being petted by him, the girl was at first at a
loss to interpret the situation. When the truth dawned upon her that
Allyn was really in earnest, she refused to be suppressed, and
persecuted the boy with every species of endearment which her naughty
brain could invent.
"Oh, but you are the dearest boy in the world!" she announced, one day,
walking into the library at The Savins where Allyn sat reading.
"What do you want now?" he asked gruffly.
"You, of course. I'm lonesome, and I want your society."
"Let my hair alone," he commanded, ducking his head, as she approached
his chair.
"I'm not touching it."
"No; but you do sometimes, and I won't have it."
"Yes, it seems so like Melchisedek's that I love to straighten the
parting," she said demurely, as she came around to the fire. "Where
is Phebe?"
"Playing with her everlasting old skeleton."
"What are you doing?"
"Trying to read, if you'd let me be," growled Allyn, with a despairing
look at the book in his hand. "What do you want?"
"You."
"What do you want of me?"
"I'm so fond of you. Besides, I am tired of being alone. Don't you
want me to play for you?" Cicely's eyes shone mischievously, as she
made the offer.
"Not for a farm. I don't like your diddle-diddles; they haven't a
particle of tune to them.
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