"And you came hither to tell us all this?"
"Yes—I thought you'd like to know I did try, and that they were too deep for me. My eye! they just are deep, those two!"
"Why didn't you stay in the workhouse?"
"Can't bide the workus, sir—they drop upon you too much. It's the wust place going, sir, and no one takes to it."
"You're an odd girl."
Mr. Hinchford leaned his back against the door-post, and surveyed the ragged and forlorn girl on the lower stair. He was perplexed with this child, and her wistful eyes—keen and glittering as steel—made him feel uncomfortable. Here was a mystery—a something unaccountable, and he could not probe to its depths, or tell which was false and which was genuine in the character of this motherless girl before him. He had prided himself all his life in being a judge of character—a man of observation, who saw the flaw in the diamond—the real face behind the paint, varnish, and pasteboard. He had judged his own brother in times past—he had mixed much with the world, and gleaned much from hard experience thereof, and yet a child like this disturbed him. He fancied that he could read a struggle for something better and more pure in Mattie's life, and that Fate was against her and drawing her back to the shadows from which she, as if by a noble instinct, was endeavouring to emerge.
He felt curious concerning her.
"What do you intend to do now?"
"Lor, sir, I don't know. It depends upon what turns up."
"You will not thieve any more?"