Mary. I know you did:—and he gave me a letter, that I might be protected, when I got to London.
Frank. Why, then, commit yourself to the care of a stranger?
Mary. Because the stranger read the direction of the letter—here it is, [Taking it from her Pocket.] and said your friend was treacherous.
Frank. [Looking at the Letter.] Villain!
Mary. Did he intend to lead me into a snare then?
Frank. Let me keep this letter.—I may have been deceived in the person I sent to you, but—damn his rascality! [Aside.] But, could you think me base enough to leave you, unsheltered? I had torn you from your home,—with anguish I confess it—but I would have provided you another home, which want should not have assailed. Would this stranger bring you better comfort?
Mary. Oh, yes; he has; he has brought me my father.
Frank. Your father!—from whom I made you fly!
Mary. Yes; he has brought a father to his child,—that she might kiss off the tears her disobedience had forced down his aged cheeks, and restored me to the only home, which could give me any comfort, now.—And my father is here.
Frank. Here!