“No, no!” sobbed the girl, bursting into a fresh paroxysm of weeping.
“Then some one must have brought it up. There, I see plain as plain. Bless him! He ought to be boiled in his own sugar, that he ought! He’s a nice fellow, he is, for a sugar-baker, to come here tattling and setting people against other people.”
“What do you mean?” sobbed May Richards, gazing wonderingly at her comforter.
“Mean? Why, that that old Tom Brough ought to be ashamed of himself to come tattling to master about Mr Frank. That was it, wasn’t it?”
“No, no!” sobbed the poor girl wearily.
“Then what did he come for?” said Keziah.
There was a pause, during which May wept bitterly.
“I shall go and ask master myself,” said Keziah authoritatively, as she half rose. “I’m not going to have my child upset like this for nothing.”
“No, no, no!” sobbed May. “Pray stay, ’Ziah—dear ’Ziah, don’t be angry, and I’ll tell you all.”
“Then what is it?” said Keziah.