"Your poor father, sir? Why do you say poor?"
"It's a way one has of speaking of the dead. My father died three years ago, and my mother a few months before; but," he said, noticing that there were tears in Mrs. Blundell's eyes, "you did not know them!"
"Yes, sir, indeed I did, if your father was the Vicar of R—, in Cornwall!"
"He was. And you?"
"I was parlour-maid in your family for five years. You were a little boy then, sir, but I dare say, when I tell you what my name was, you'll remember it."
"How strange! I thought when I came in that your face was familiar to me, and I felt certain you came from Cornwall by your speech, and your children have a touch of the dialect, too."
"It comes from being so much with me, I suppose, sir. I was Dinah Mudford before I married."
"Old John Mudford's daughter? Why, of course, I remember now! I saw your father only last summer, and had a long chat with him. He's a hale, hearty man for his years."
Jim Blewett cast a discerning glance around the wretched garret, for he knew that Mrs. Blundell's father was a man counted well off for his position in life. He had by hard work and frugality raised himself from a labouring man to be the owner of a small dairy farm; therefore, it seemed almost incredible that his daughter should be in needy circumstances.
Mrs. Blundell saw and comprehended the meaning of the look on the young man's face, and when he took his leave, she followed him downstairs, and explained to him how she had married against her father's consent, and he had accordingly declined to have anything more to do with her.