Suddenly, however, a thought seemed to come back upon Tom, a thought
which my unexpected appearance on the scene had driven from his
drunken brain. The look of virtuous indignation returned, and staring
at the little girl through glazed eyes, he said with the tremulous
and tearful voice of a deeply injured parent,
'Winifred, I thought I heard you singing one of them heathen Gypsy
songs that you learnt of the Gypsies in Wales.'
'No, father,' said she, 'it was the song they sing in Shire-Carnarvon
about the golden cloud over Snowdon and the spirits of the air.'
'Yes,' said Tom, 'but a little time ago you were singing a Gypsy
song--a downright heathen Gypsy song. I heard it about half an hour
ago when I was in the church.'
The beautiful little head drooped in shame.
'I'm s'prised at you, Winifred. When I come to think whose daughter
you are.--mine!--I'm s'prised at you,' continued Torn, whose virtuous
indignation waxed with every word.
'Oh. I'm so sorry!' said the child. 'I won't do it any more.'
This contrition of the child's only fanned the flame of Tom's
virtuous indignation.
Pages:
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50