Not
feeling myself able to comfort her, there was only one other thing to
do. That thing was--to take her in to dinner.
"Help me up," I said. "You're late for dinner, Rosanna--and I have come
to fetch you in."
"You, Mr. Betteredge!" says she.
"They told Nancy to fetch you," I said. "But thought you might like your
scolding better, my dear, if it came from me."
Instead of helping me up, the poor thing stole her hand into mine, and
gave it a little squeeze. She tried hard to keep from crying again,
and succeeded--for which I respected her. "You're very kind, Mr.
Betteredge," she said. "I don't want any dinner to-day--let me bide a
little longer here."
"What makes you like to be here?" I asked. "What is it that brings you
everlastingly to this miserable place?"
"Something draws me to it," says the girl, making images with her finger
in the sand. "I try to keep away from it, and I can't. Sometimes,"
says she in a low voice, as if she was frightened at her own fancy,
"sometimes, Mr. Betteredge, I think that my grave is waiting for me
here."
"There's roast mutton and suet-pudding waiting for you!" says I. "Go in
to dinner directly.
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