Ugly, misshapen, peevish, ill-conditioned, ragged, dirty--but beloved! Oh yes! Florence had seen her father's look towards her, and she knew whose look it had no likeness to.
'I'm afraid she's worse this morning, my poor girl!' said the man, suspending his work, and contemplating his ill-favoured child, with a compassion that was the more tender for being rougher.
'She is ill, then!' said Florence.
The man drew a deep sigh 'I don't believe my Martha's had five short days' good health,' he answered, looking at her still, 'in as many long years.' 'Ay! and more than that, John,' said a neighbour, who had come down to help him with the boat.
'More than that, you say, do you ?' cried the other, pushing back his battered hat, and drawing his hand across his forehead.

'Very like.

It seems a long, long time.' 'And the more the time,' pursued the neighbour, 'the more you've favoured and humoured her, John, till she's got to be a burden to herself, and everybody else.' 'Not to me,' said her father, falling to his work.

'Not to me.' Florence could feel--who better ?--how truly he spoke.

She drew a little closer to him, and would have been glad to touch his rugged hand, and thank him for his goodness to the miserable object that he looked upon with eyes so different from any other man's.
'Who would favour my poor girl--to call it favouring--if I didn't ?' said the father.
'Ay, ay,' cried the neighbour.