"What did Bridget do then, Tim?"
"Sure she come to Wimbleton or a place hard by," admitted Tim reluctantly, "sellin' apples an' nuts, an' a mighty bad thing she made by the sale."
"I want to know exactly how she came to be my nurse?" said Lesbia.
Tim bent over the potatoes deeply interested in the peeling. "Why, Miss, your father--" here he swallowed something--"the masther, Miss, and a kind, good gintleman, tuck pity on her and give her the situation as your nurse, me dear."
"But my mother?"
"Oh, howly saints, an' how cud she say anything whin she wos dyin' an' you but a year old? But my mother nursed you like her own choild, Miss, till ye went to that school at Hampstead. But ye came back here just whin she was dyin', poor sowl."
"I did, a year ago," said Lesbia significantly, "and in time to receive the cross, Tim."
"May the father av lies fly away wid it!" groaned the dwarf. "An' may the saints forgive me for the wicked wish."
"Whatever do you mean, Tim?"
"Mane, ah, nivir ask me what I mane. But the crass isn't with ye now, an' ye'll be the betther widout it."