Dolly hugged her father as has been already stated, and having hugged
her mother also, accompanied both into the little parlour where the
cloth was already laid for dinner, and where Miss Miggs--a trifle more
rigid and bony than of yore--received her with a sort of hysterical
gasp, intended for a smile. Into the hands of that young virgin, she
delivered her bonnet and walking dress (all of a dreadful, artful,
and designing kind), and then said with a laugh, which rivalled the
locksmith's music, 'How glad I always am to be at home again!'
'And how glad we always are, Doll,' said her father, putting back the
dark hair from her sparkling eyes, 'to have you at home. Give me a
kiss.'
If there had been anybody of the male kind there to see her do it--but
there was not--it was a mercy.
'I don't like your being at the Warren,' said the locksmith, 'I can't
bear to have you out of my sight. And what is the news over yonder,
Doll?'
'What news there is, I think you know already,' replied his daughter. 'I
am sure you do though.'
'Ay?' cried the locksmith. 'What's that?'
'Come, come,' said Dolly, 'you know very well. I want you to tell me why
Mr Haredale--oh, how gruff he is again, to be sure!--has been away from
home for some days past, and why he is travelling about (we know he IS
travelling, because of his letters) without telling his own niece why or
wherefore.
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