“Yes,—except—”
“Say it out, child.”
“Except in the case of any duty which I felt to be not less sacred than the one I owe to my father.”
He made no reply.
Walking on, we passed Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. It was quiet and silent, the door open, but the window-shutter half closed, and there was no smoke from the chimney. I saw papa turn round and look. At last he said:—
“What did you mean by telling me they were 'starving?'”
I answered the direct, entire truth. I was bold, for it was your mind as well as my own I was speaking out, and I knew it was right. I pleaded chiefly for the child—it was easiest to think of it, the little creature I had seen laughing and crowing in the garden at Kensington. It seemed such a dreadful thing for that helpless baby to die of want, or live to turn out a reprobate.
“Think, papa,” I cried, “if that poor little soul had been our own flesh and blood—if you were Francis's father, and this had been your grandchild!”
To my sorrow, I had forgotten for the time a part of poor Harry's story—the beginning of it: you shall know it some day—it is all past now. But papa remembered it. He faltered as he walked—at last he sat down on a tree by the roadside, and said, “He must go home.”
Yet still, either by accident or design, he took the way by the lane where is Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. At the gate of it a little ragged urchin was poking a rosy face through the bars; and, seeing papa, this small fellow gave a shout of delight, tottered out, and caught hold of his coat, calling him “Daddy.” He started—I thought he would have fallen, he trembled so: my poor old father.