“That is the picture of a lady. Carkey gave it to me, and he told me never to part with it for love or money. It is a picture of a real lady, such a beauty, and he says,--you swear you will never split?” “Never,” said Dibble, solemnly. “Well, that this lady was my mother, and that my father was a gentleman; that Digby Martin is not my father at all, and that some day I would perhaps find out my real father. I promised on his death-bed always to call Digby father, and never to let anything make me not do so, and that I was to try and learn things out of books, and read newspapers, and all that. Now, I’ve always wanted somebody to talk to since poor Carkey died, and to ask their opinion about it; and now you and I shall be friends for ever,--eh, Thomas?” “Oh, yes, sure,” said Dibble. “I wouldn’t tell your secret for all the world. What a wonderful girl you be, surely!” “Ain’t I?” said Christabel, quite proudly. “I often thinks of it when I’m going through the performance, and especially lately. I read in bed, and sometimes of a morning; and I know it’s true what Carkey said, because there’s a tale just like it in the paper which I buy every Saturday morning, as sure as the day comes round; and O, it makes my blood boil! O, it’s such a fizzing story, and there’s pictures of her in it! She was stolen by gipsies, and they made her sell buy-a-brooms and matches; and she was a lord’s daughter all the time! And who knows, Thomas, but that I am the same? Haven’t I got a picture in my bosom, and all that? O, wouldn’t I go it if I ever came to be rich! And I mean to be, Dibble; I’m not a-going to be always performing here, don’t think it!” Dibble said Miss Christabel ought to be in London, at the British Museum, or somewhere. When she knew a little more of things in general, Christabel said she meant to try her fortune. There were lots of marriages in the tale she was reading, and always a lot in the newspapers. Why shouldn’t she be married? “Why, you be too young for that,” said Dibble. “I know a young gentleman as would make such a sweetheart for you,” said Dibble; “such a sweetheart!” “Yes,” said Christabel, smiling her sweetest, and putting her hair to rights. “But there, he be miles and miles away from here,” said Dibble; “and you’re never likely to see him, Ise afeared.” “What is he like?” said Christabel, preparing for a flirtation in fancy. “O, a handsome, nice young gentleman; and his name’s Paul.” “What a jolly, stunning name!” said Christabel. “He wouldn’t like you to speak like that,” said Dibble. “How do you mean?” asked Christabel. “Why stunning and all that--it bain’t perlite; he talks so fine himself, he do.” “I know what you mean,” said the young lady. “I can talk fine, too. I know stunning isn’t fine; but I know what is, so there!” “You bain’t angry now?” said Dibble. “Not at all--oh, no,” said Christabel. “What’s his other name?” “Somerton,” said Dibble. “Master Paul Somerton.”