Innocent | Page 6

crimson tie and that Latin! No wonder the village
girls adore you! 'De,'--what is it? 'Contemptu Mundi,' and Misery
Human Conditions! Poor Pope! He never sat on top of a hay- load in
his life I'm sure! But you see his name was Lothario,--not Innocent."
"His baptismal name was Lothario," said Robin, severely.
She was suddenly silent.
"Well! I suppose I was baptised?" she queried, after a pause.
"I suppose so."
"I wonder if I have any other name? I must ask Dad."

Robin looked at her curiously;--then his thoughts were diverted by the
sight of a squat stout woman in a brown spotted print gown and white
sunbonnet, who just then trotted briskly into the hay-field, calling at the
top of her voice:
"Mister Jocelyn! Mister Jocelyn! You're wanted!"
"There's Priscilla calling Uncle in," he said, and making a hollow of his
hands he shouted:
"Hullo, Priscilla! What is it?"
The sunbonnet gave an upward jerk in his direction and the wearer
shrilled out:
"Doctor's come! Wantin' yer Uncle!"
The old man, who had been so long quietly seated on the upturned
barrel, now rose stiffly, and knocking out the ashes of his pipe turned
towards the farmhouse. But before he went he raised his straw hat again
and stood for a moment bareheaded in the roseate glory of the sinking
sun. Innocent sprang upright on the load of hay, and standing almost at
the very edge of it, shaded her eyes with one hand from the strong light,
and looked at him.
"Dad!" she called--"Dad, shall I come?"
He turned his head towards her.
"No, lass, no! Stay where you are, with Robin."
He walked slowly, and with evident feebleness, across the length of the
field which divided him from the farmhouse garden, and opening the
green gate leading thereto, disappeared. The sun- bonneted individual
called Priscilla walked or rather waddled towards the hay-waggon, and
setting her arms akimbo on her broad hips, looked up with a grin at the
young people on top.
"Well! Ye're a fine couple up there! What are ye a-doin' of?"

"Never mind what we're doing," said Robin, impatiently. "I say,
Priscilla, do you think Uncle Hugo is really ill?"
Priscilla's face, which was the colour of an ancient nutmeg, and almost
as deeply marked with contrasting lines of brown and yellow, showed
no emotion.
"He ain't hisself," she said, bluntly.
"No," said Innocent, seriously,--"I'm sure he isn't." Priscilla jerked her
sunbonnet a little further back, showing some tags of dusty grey hair.
"He ain't been hisself for this past year," she went on--"Mr. Slowton,
bein' only a kind of village physic-bottle, don't know much, an' yer
uncle ain't bin satisfied. Now there's another doctor from London
staying up 'ere for 'is own poor 'elth, and yer Uncle said he'd like to 'ave
'is opinion,--so Mr. Slowton, bein' obligin' though ignorant, 'as got 'im
in to see yer Uncle, and there they both is, in the best parlour, with
special wine an' seedies on the table."
"Oh, it'll be all right!" said Robin, cheerfully,--"Uncle Hugo is getting
old, of course, and he's a bit fanciful."
Priscilla sniffed the air.
"Mebbe--and mebbe not! What are you two waitin' for now?"
"For the men to come back with Roger. Then we'll haul home."
"You'll 'ave to wait a bit longer, I'm thinkin'," said Priscilla-- "They's all
drinkin' beer in the yard now an' tappin' another barrel to drink at when
the waggon comes in. There's no animals on earth as ever thirsty as
men! Well, good luck t'ye! I must go, or there'll be a smell of burnin'
supper-cakes."
She settled her sunbonnet anew and trotted away,--looking rather like a
large spotted mushroom mysteriously set in motion and rolling, rather
than walking, off the field.

When she was gone, Innocent sat down again upon the hay, this time
without Cupid. He had flown off to join his mates on the farmhouse
gables.
"Dad is really not well," she said, thoughtfully; "I feel anxious about
him. If he were to die,--" At the mere thought her eyes filled with tears.
"He must die some day," answered Robin, gently,--"and he's old,--nigh
on eighty."
"Oh, I don't want to remember that," she murmured. "It's the cruellest
part of life--that people should grow old, and die, and pass away from
us. What should I do without Dad? I should be all alone, with no one in
the world to care what becomes of me."
"I care!" he said, softly.
"Yes, you care--just now"--she answered, with a sigh; "and it's very
kind of you. I wish I could care--in the way you want me to-- but--"
"Will you try?" he pleaded.
"I do try--really I do try hard," she said, with quite a piteous
earnestness,--"but I can't feel what isn't HERE,"--and she pressed