"There--there is little to tell. About two months ago we were turned out of Nutsgrove. Every article of furniture was sold by auction--even--even mother's wedding-presents--and the place was bought by Tom Armstrong, the great vitriol and chemical manure man of Kelvick. That's the whole story." "But your--your father, child! What of him? Surely he did not allow--" "He--he--did nothing. He mortgaged every stick to the place, and did not even pay the interest on the money raised." "And, Addie, where is he now?" "I don't know," she answers drearily--"in America somewhere, I believe; he disappeared nearly three years ago. He backed the wrong horse for the Derby, just ran down here for half an hour, burned some papers in his study, kissed us all round, and went away. We never heard from him afterward--at least, not directly." "But surely he can not have deserted you altogether--have left you five children totally unprovided for?" "He left us with a capital of four pounds fifteen between us--four pounds fifteen--not a penny more! And we have had nothing from him since; and yet the Scripture tells us to honor our parents!" "Hush, child--hush! We must not question the commands of Holy Writ. Why, if it comes to that, women are ordered to love, honor, and obey their husbands; and, oh, my dear, my dear," continues the little woman, the corkscrew ringlets of her frisette nodding with impressive emphasis, "if you could only have seen or heard the men some women are called upon to honor--to honor, mind you--why, you--" "Ah, but that is different, quite different! A woman has the power of choosing her husband; if she selects the wrong man, there is no one to blame but herself. But a child can't choose its own father; if it could, you may be sure poor Bob wouldn't have selected one who would rob him of his patrimony and cast him penniless on the world without even the resource of education." "Come, Addie dear, are you not too severe on your father? He has had many temptations, has been unfortunate in his speculations; but, when he knows the state you are in, you may be sure he will make an effort to help you--probably send for you all and give you a home in the new world." Addie does not reply at once; a sudden wave of color floods her soft face, and she says hurriedly-- "After all, why shouldn't I tell you? I--I dare say you will hear it from some one else; I--I suppose half the county knows it." "Knows what, dear?" "That our father has abandoned us altogether--that he has other family-ties we--we knew nothing of--" "Addie, my dear, what are you talking of?" "He did not leave England alone, Miss Rossitor," she answers excitedly; "he asked none of us to go with him, but he took two other children we had never heard of, and a--a wife. I believe she was an actress at a London theater--" "My dear child," interrupts Miss Rossitor, much flurried and shocked, "where did you hear all this? Who told you? Do the others know?"