“Yours!” replied Agnes, looking archly up at Sir Waldron, and placing her little hand on his as she spoke. “Pooh! pooh! child, don't be foolish,” replied Sir Waldron, who felt half inclined to be angry, but, at the same time, could not prevent his features from relaxing into a smile; “tell me the truth.” “I have told the truth; indeed and indeed I have.” “How do you mean, child?” “Why, if you're my papa, you know, I must be your little daughter:--musn't I now?” “Truly so, child,” replied Sir Waldron; “but as I am not your papa--” “Oh! but you are, though,” interrupted Agnes; “my mamma told me so.” Sir Waldron's cheek grew pale; he stared at the child, and remained for a few moments silent; then, assuming a stern manner, he said to Agnes rather sharply,--“I suspect you to be a designing, bold, bad child; or the tool of wretches; or, at best, remarkably impudent. Do you know who I am?” “Sir Waldron Hackle;--at least, so I hope,” was the child's reply;--“the men said they were going to bring us before Sir Waldron Hackle,--and that's you, isn't it?--If not, I've kept my promise to my poor mamma finely;--but it isn't my fault.” “What mamma? what promise? How you talk, child!--what promise?” “Not to tell any one who I was, nor to mention my name, until I saw my father.” “And what is your name?” eagerly inquired Sir Waldron. “Oh! you know what it is well enough--don't you?” “How the devil should I?” exclaimed the irritated baronet, who for a moment forgot that he was speaking to a child. “How should I?” he repeated, in somewhat a calmer tone. “Why, you haven't any more little girls, have you?” “Ridiculous! Tell me your name, instantly!” “You won't be angry with me, I hope, for asking you first, if you _are_ Sir Waldron Hackle? My mamma so strictly charged me--” “Well, well! I am--I am,” replied the baronet; “I am Sir Waldron Hackle--” “Ay; but are you the gentleman that broke his arm at Westbury, and--” “Yes, yes!--Westbury, said you?--What's this flashes across me? it surely cannot be--” “Indeed, and it is, though!” “Hannah Russelts child?” “Yes! my mamma's dead; and I've walked all the way by myself, and now you won't own me,” sobbed little Agnes; and her head dropped upon Sir Waldron's hand, which he immediately felt was wetted with her tears. “Own you!” said Sir Waldron, scarcely knowing what he said. “How can I own you?” “I'm sure I don't know,” replied the little girl, raising her head, and endeavouring to restrain the sobs which almost rendered her unable to articulate; “you must do as you please about that; my mamma sent her dying love--to you,--and she told me to be sure to say that she had done--her duty, and you need not be ashamed of me!” Sir Waldron made no reply; but he snatched Agnes up, pressed her to his bosom, and kissed her repeatedly: he then put her at arm's length from him, gazed earnestly on her face, and again most affectionately embraced her.