"She is six years old, sir."
"Could it not be on account of your unkind treatment of her that your sister ran away?" was the next query.
Poor Nadine flushed to the roots of her hair, and her eye flashed indignantly at this contemptible insinuation from the magistrate.
"Unkind treatment!" she cried, her voice quivering with anger. "I never treated Lydia unkindly, as any one who knows about us can tell you. I have always done my best to be as tender with her as our dear mother would have been. I can assure you, sir, that Lydia is as fond of us as we are of her. We all four love each other dearly, and we are very happy together, and the idea of her leaving us of her own accord is absurd. She must have been taken away by some evil person—and only the good God knows what they will do with her." Here her indignation changed to grief, and covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears.
The stern old magistrate, instead of being convinced by the manifest sincerity and truthfulness of the young girl, shook his head, as though to say:
"That's all very fine, but I don't put much faith in it," and after a pause put another question.
"Was not your sister of a very headstrong nature?"
"Indeed she was not," sobbed Nadine, "she was always most affectionate and gentle, and perfectly obedient."
"We will see about that," grunted the magistrate, looking rather dissatisfied at the result of his examination thus far.