"You little runaway! you little truant!" he said, lifting the Duchess to his lap, and kissing her sticky lips; "where have you been hiding yourself?"
It would have been hard to tell which of the three was the most delighted--he, or Sally, or the Duchess of Rosemary Lane. They all laughed and crowed together. Presently Seth comported himself more gravely.
"Come, my beauty," he said in a serious tone, "where have you been hiding?"
The Duchess became as grave and serious as her interrogator.
"I mustn't tell," she answered.
"Ah, but you must," persisted Seth; "we want to know, so that the next time it happens we may be able to find you."
"No, no," laughingly crowed the child; "I mustn't tell--I mustn't tell."
And that was all they could extract from her, with all their questioning and coaxing. Where had she been to? She mustn't tell. Who had given her the fruit and sweets? She mustn't tell. The only satisfaction they obtained from her was upon their asking if she had been told not to tell, and she answered, with a sly laugh, Yes. With this they were fain to rest content.
But when she was abed and asleep, Seth and Sally interchanged a grave confidence, to the effect that the Duchess must be carefully looked after. Sally needed no prompting. She had fully made up her mind to watch her precious charge with increased care and vigilance. Sharp as she was, however, the Duchess outwitted her. Within a week she was missing again. But Sally was more fortunate in her inquiries on this occasion. Meeting Betsy Newbiggin, she purchased from that industrious trader, for five pins and a farthing, the information that the Duchess of Rosemary Lane and Sally's brother were seen walking along hand-in-hand a quarter of an hour ago, in the direction of Ned Chester's lodging. Sally knew where her brother lived, and she ran swiftly to the place. The room occupied by her brother was at the top of the house; and when Sally reached the landing, she found the door closed upon her. Peeping through the keyhole, she saw the Duchess sitting on the bed, and Ned Chester sitting by her feeding her with sweetstuff. Sally was too frightened to go in; she knew the disposition of her brother, and she was fearful of driving him to the extreme measure of running away altogether with the Duchess--for that dreaded contingency was in her mind. What passed between the child and the man consisted chiefly of repetitions of the lovely lad's misfortunes, of his hard fate, and of the cruel way in which people oppressed him. He said, also, that he hated Seth Dumbrick; he hated Sally; he hated everything. When Sally heard his expressions of unmeaning hatred towards herself and her protector, she listened in an agony of agitation for some vindication from the Duchess: none reached her ears; but upon placing her eye to the keyhole, it brought a sense of satisfaction to her to observe that a mournful expression was clouding the child's bright face.
"But never mind them," said Ned Chester; "you love me, don't you?"