"Aye, 'e were a swell in them days," pursued Mother Guttersnipe, "and 'e comes a-philanderin' round my gal, cuss 'im, an' ruins 'er, and leaves 'er an' the child to starve, like a black-'earted villain as 'e were." "The child! Her name?" "Bah," retorted the hag, with scorn, "as if you didn't know my gran'daughter Sal." "Sal, Mark Frettlby's child?" "Yes, an' as pretty a girl as the other, tho' she 'appened to be born on the wrong side of the 'edge. Oh, I've seen 'er a-sweepin' along in 'er silks an' satins as tho' we were dirt--an' Sal 'er 'alf sister--cuss 'er." Exhausted by the efforts she had made, the old woman sank back in her bed, while Calton sat dazed, thinking over the astounding revelation that had just been made. That Rosanna Moore should turn out to be Mark Frettlby's mistress he hardly wondered at; after all, the millionaire was but a man, and in his young days had been no better and no worse than the rest of his friends. Rosanna Moore was pretty, and was evidently one of those women who--rakes at heart--prefer the untrammelled freedom of being a mistress, to the sedate bondage of a wife. In questions of morality, so many people live in glass houses, that there are few nowadays who can afford to throw stones. Calton did not think any the worse of Frettlby for his youthful follies. But what did surprise him was that Frettlby should be so heartless, as to leave his child to the tender mercies of an old hag like Mother Guttersnipe. It was so entirely different from what he knew of the man, that he was inclined to think that the old woman was playing him a trick. "Did Mr. Frettlby know Sal was his child?" he asked. "Not 'e," snarled Mother Guttersnipe, in an exultant tone. "'E thought she was dead, 'e did, arter Rosanner gave him the go-by." "And why did you not tell him?" "'Cause I wanted to break 'is 'eart, if 'e 'ad any," said the old beldame, vindictively. "Sal was a-goin' wrong as fast as she could till she was tuk from me. If she had gone and got into quod I'd 'ave gone to 'im, and said, 'Look at yer darter! 'Ow I've ruined her as you did mine.'" "You wicked woman," said Calton, revolted at the malignity of the scheme. "You sacrificed an innocent girl for this." "None of yer preachin'," retorted the hag sullenly; "I ain't bin brought up for a saint, I ain't--an' I wanted to pay 'im out--'e paid me well to 'old my tongue about my darter, an' I've got it 'ere," laying her hand on the pillow, "all gold, good gold--an' mine, cuss me."