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.

'Here am I,' said he, 'the most (hiccup) respectable man in two
parishes,--except Master Aylwin's father, of course,--here am I, the
organ-player for the Christianest of all the Christian churches along
the coast, and here's my daughter sings heathen songs just like a
Gypsy or a tinker. I'm s'prised at you, Winifred.'

I had often seen Tom in a dignified state of liquor, but the pathetic
expression of injured virtue that again overspread his face so
changed it, that I had some difficulty myself in realising how
entirely the tears filling his eyes and the grief at his heart were
of alcoholic origin. And as to the little girl, she began to sob
piteously.

'Oh dear, oh dear, what a wicked girl I am !' said she.

This exclamation, however, aroused my ire against Tom; and as I
always looked upon him as my special paid henchman, who, in return
for such services as supplying me with tiny boxing-gloves, and
fishing-tackle, and bait, during my hale days, and tame rabbits now