"Don't tell him not to mind, Maria, for he'll have to know it. It is all here in black and white, printed in a newspaper."
"It's a mistake, grandma. Father did not—do that."
"My poor child, there's no use denying it. You remember John Martin—he married my niece, Annie Thompson that was—he was foreman at Timpson and Booth's, in Hemsborough? Do you remember him?"
"Yes, I do," Frank admitted.
"Well, he was at this place—New Durham, or Dorset, I forget which exactly—and he saw your father tried and found guilty. He's in jail for it now, and it would be a good thing, if they'd keep him there."
"Do you mean always? Will they keep him always?"
"It's much the same as far as you're concerned. He's got your mother out now, and got rid of you two—I only hope it wasn't a plan laid between them. Eat your dinner, child. Goodness knows how you're to get a dinner when my lord puts you out of this, and it stands to reason he will not keep you for ever."
"I can't eat. It's not that I believe it; muddie would never leave us here always—she wants us—but—but—" the clear little voice broke down—"muddie will come for us soon," he said, with a sob.
"I wish I could think so," Mrs. Rayburn said dolefully, "for I see nothing before you but the poorhouse. What's that, Maria?"
"A telegram from my lord, ma'am."