“Rescue the Dandy—rescue Alf Purvis! Bah!”
A shade of sorrow passed over the features of the woman.
“Is he lost, utterly and irretrievably, then?” she inquired. “Answer me, Rawton.”
“You and I are not likely to agree upon this subject,” returned he. I must tell you frankly that he is as unprincipled as he is worthless.”
“Do you wish to drive me mad?” said Mrs. Grover.
“Certainly not. But you must not place all the faults of this young gentleman upon the shoulders of Lorrie Stanbridge.”
“Who taught him? Who brought him up as a thief? She did!”
“We will not argue that question. He proved to be a pretty good pupil, and was not good for much when she took him in hand.”
“What has she made of him? Oh, Rawton, you know but too well, although you do not choose to say. Listen to me. I am growing old, have no tie but one, it is my boy; restore him to me, and heaven will bless you. Think of the many dreary and desolate years I have passed—think of all I have suffered, and take pity on me.”
“I do pity you,” cried the gipsy. “I am sorry for you, but what’s the use of that? You cannot be benefitted by my pity or commiseration. I do not know anything about Purvis; if I did I would tell you all I knew.”