“No, no; plain Mr Burge or William Burge to me, Miss Thorne. I don’t want a long name from you.”
“Mr Burge—Miss Burge, yesterday I could not have spoken to you upon this subject, but your kindness—”
“There, there, there; don’t say a word about it,” he replied quickly. “I know all, and it was an accident.”
“An accident?”
“Yes, my dear,” broke in little Miss Burge. “Bill talked it over to me last night, and—Now, you won’t be offended, my dear?”
“Nothing you could say would offend me,” cried Hazel eagerly.
“No, of course not, my dear. Well, my brother said to me, ‘depend upon it, Betsey, her poor ma wanted the money for housekeeping or something, and just used it. That’s all.’”
“And he has humiliated me by this letter that I received by post.”
“Don’t call it humiliation, my dear,” cried Miss Burge; “it was only sent out of civility to you as one of our neighbours whom we like, and that’s what it means.”
Hazel hesitated for a few moments, and then, in her loneliness and isolation, she clung to the hands outstretched to help her.