"Ashamed?" said Lettice, in a low voice. There was one thing she thought, of which Milly could be ashamed. She looked from the weeping mother to the baby's face, and back again to Milly. "My poor girl," she said, with a sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had perhaps been tempted beyond her strength—so Lettice thought—"my poor child, you don't think I should be unkind to you!"
"No, no! you were always so kind to me, miss. And I—I—was so wicked—so ungrateful—so deceitful——"
And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice's arms were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up misery and sobbed aloud.
"Where is—he? your husband?" said Lettice, remembering that she had heard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. Bundlecombe some time ago, and conjecturing that something had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole truth.
Milly sobbed on for a minute or two without replying. Then she said, somewhat indistinctly,
"He's gone away. Left me."
"Left you? But—for a time, you mean? To look for work, perhaps?"
"No, no; he has left me altogether. I shall never see him again—never!" said the girl, with sudden passion. "Oh, don't ask me any more, Miss Lettice, I can't bear it!"
"No, no," said Lettice, pitifully, "I will ask you no questions, Milly. You shall tell me all about it or nothing, just as you like. We must not keep the baby out in the night air any longer. Come round to the door, and Mrs. Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want a night's lodging, and then we will arrange what you are to do to-morrow."
Milly did not move, however, from her position by the wall. She had ceased to sob, and was twisting her handkerchief nervously between her fingers.