“Humph! and is that your own child?—you are almost a child yourself.”
“It is mine, madam,” said Alice, gazing fondly at the infant; “it is my all!”
The lady’s voice faltered. “Are you married?” she asked.
“Married!—Oh, no, madam!” replied Alice, innocently, yet without blushing, for she never knew that she had done wrong in loving Maltravers.
The lady drew gently back, but not in horror—no, in still deeper compassion; for that lady had virtue, and she knew that the faults of her sex are sufficiently punished to permit Virtue to pity them without a sin.
“I am sorry for it,” she said, however, with greater gravity. “Are you travelling to seek the father?”
“Ah, madam! I shall never see him again!” And Alice wept.
“What!—he has abandoned you—so young, so beautiful!” added the lady to herself.
“Abandoned me!—no, madam; but it is a long tale. Good evening—I thank you kindly for your pity.”
The lady’s eyes ran over.