Yet still, either by accident or design, he took the way by the lane where is Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. At the gate of it a little ragged urchin was poking a rosy face through the bars; and, seeing papa, this small fellow gave a shout of delight, tottered out, and caught hold of his coat, calling him "Daddy." He started--I thought he would have fallen, he trembled so: my poor old father. When I lifted the little thing out of his way, I too started. It is strange always to see a face you know revived in a child's face--in this instance it was shocking--pitiful. My first thought was, we never must let Penelope come past this way. I was carrying the boy off--I well knew where, when papa called me. "Stop. Not alone--not without your father." It was but a few steps, and we stood on the door-sill of Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. The old woman snatched up the child, and I heard her whisper something about "Run--Lyddy--run away." But Lydia, if that white, thin creature, huddled up in the corner were she, never attempted to move. Papa walked up to her. "Young woman, are you Lydia Cartwright, and is this your child?" "Have you been meddling with him? You'd better not! I say, Franky, what have they been doing to mother's Franky?" She caught at him, and hugged him close, as mothers do. And when the boy, evidently both attracted and puzzled by papa's height and gentlemanly clothes, tried to get back to him, and again call him "Daddy," she said angrily, "No, no, 'tis not your daddy. They're no friends o' yours. I wish they were out of the place, Franky, boy." "You wish us away. No wonder. Are you not ashamed to look us in the face--my daughter and me?" But papa might have said ever so much more, without her heeding. The child having settled himself on her lap, playing with the ragged counterpane that wrapped her instead of a shawl, Lydia seemed to care for nothing. She lay back with her eyes shut, still and white. We may be sure of one thing--she has preferred to starve. "Dunnot be too hard upon her, sir," begged the old woman. "Dunnot please, Miss Dora. She bean't a lady like you, and he were such a fine coaxing young gentleman. It's he that's most to blame." My father said sternly, "Has she left him, or been deserted by him--I mean Mr. Francis Charteris?" "Mother," screamed Lydia, "what's that? What have they come for? Do they know anything about him?" _She_ did not, then. "Be quiet, my lass," said the mother, soothingly, but it was of no use. "Miss Dora," cried the girl, creeping to me, and speaking in the same sort of childish pitiful tone in which she used to come and beg Lisabel and me to intercede for her when she had annoyed Penelope, "do, Miss Dora, tell me. I don't want to see him, I only want to hear. I've heard nothing since he sent me a letter from prison, saying I was to take my things and the baby's and go. I don't know what's become of him, no more than the dead. And, miss, he's that boy's father--miss--please--"