When I lifted the little thing out of his way, I too started. It is strange always to see a face you know revived in a child's face—in this instance it was shocking—pitiful. My first thought was, we never must let Penelope come past this way. I was carrying the boy off—I well knew where, when papa called me.
“Stop. Not alone—not without your father.”
It was but a few steps, and we stood on the door-sill of Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. The old woman snatched up the child, and I heard her whisper something about “Run—Lyddy—run away.”
But Lydia, if that white, thin creature, huddled up in the corner were she, never attempted to move.
Papa walked up to her.
“Young woman, are you Lydia Cartwright, and is this your child?”
“Have you been meddling with him? You'd better not! I say, Franky, what have they been doing to mother's Franky?”
She caught at him, and hugged him close, as mothers do. And when the boy, evidently both attracted and puzzled by papa's height and gentlemanly clothes, tried to get back to him, and again call him “Daddy,” she said angrily, “No, no, 'tis not your daddy. They're no friends o' yours. I wish they were out of the place, Franky, boy.”
“You wish us away. No wonder. Are you not ashamed to look us in the face—my daughter and me?”
But papa might have said ever so much more, without her heeding. The child having settled himself on her lap, playing with the ragged counterpane that wrapped her instead of a shawl, Lydia seemed to care for nothing. She lay back with her eyes shut, still and white. We may be sure of one thing—she has preferred to starve.