Man and boy commenced to tell me together. Their strange London talk puzzled me, and I could only extract a confused sense of what they said. The woman, to whom they rudely pointed, had called at the building opposite every day for a fortnight at about this hour to make some inquiry. Day by day she had turned away, after one brief question asked and answered, with bowed head and dejected manner. Yet, day by day, she returned and repeated it. Ever the same disappointment, the same despair!
They knew nothing more. Her regular visits had awakened a certain curiosity in them, and they had commenced to look for them, and indulge in a little mild speculation as to her one day meeting with a different reception. Nothing more! There was a shade of pity in the boy's tone, and I gave him a shilling; then I crossed the road.
As I left the kerbstone, the door opened and I heard her question:—
"Has Father Adrian called or written, or sent any address yet, please?"
The man, who had opened the door only a few inches, kept in the background, and I could see nothing of him, but I heard his grim, monosyllable reply:
"No! Father Adrian has not visited or communicated with us."
She turned away with a meek "Thank you," and found herself face to face with me. My heart smote me when I saw how poor were her clothes, and how thin her features.
At first she did not know me; but I raised my veil, and whispered her name softly in her ear.
She threw up her hands, and swayed backwards and forwards upon the pavement.