"Her mother! Are you Rosanna Moore's mother?" cried Calton, considerably astonished.
"May I die if I ain't," croaked the hag. "'Er pore father died of drink, cuss 'im, an' I'm a-follerin' 'im to the same place in the same way. You weren't about town in the old days, or you'd a-bin after her, cuss ye."
"After Rosanna?"
"The werry girl," answered Mother Guttersnipe. "She were on the stage, she were, an' my eye, what a swell she were, with all the coves a-dyin' for 'er, an' she dancin' over their black 'earts, cuss 'em; but she was allays good to me till 'e came."
"Who came?"
"'E!" yelled the old woman, raising herself on her arm, her eyes sparkling with vindictive fury. "'E, a-comin' round with di'monds and gold, and a-ruinin' my pore girl; an' how 'e's 'eld 'is bloomin' 'ead up all these years as if he were a saint, cuss 'im—cuss 'im."
"Whom does she mean?" whispered Calton to Kilsip.
"Mean!" screamed Mother Guttersnipe, whose sharp ears had caught the muttered question. "Why, Mark Frettlby!"
"Good God!" Calton rose up in his astonishment, and even Kilsip's inscrutable countenance displayed some surprise.
"Aye, 'e were a swell in them days," pursued Mother Guttersnipe, "and 'e comes a-philanderin' round my gal, cuss 'im, an' ruins 'er, and leaves 'er an' the child to starve, like a black-'earted villain as 'e were."