“And pilfering, mother?”
“Sometimes, Ally—in a very small way. I am old and timid. I have taken trifles from children now and then, my deary, but not often. I have tramped about the country, pet, and I know what I know. I have watched.”
“Watched?” returned the daughter, looking at her.
“I have hung about a family, my deary,” said the mother, even more humbly and submissively than before.
“What family?”
“Hush, darling. Don’t be angry with me. I did it for the love of you. In memory of my poor gal beyond seas.” She put out her hand deprecatingly, and drawing it back again, laid it on her lips.
“Years ago, my deary,” she pursued, glancing timidly at the attentive and stern face opposed to her, “I came across his little child, by chance.”
“Whose child?”
“Not his, Alice deary; don’t look at me like that; not his. How could it be his? You know he has none.”
“Whose then?” returned the daughter. “You said his.”