“What is her name?” asked Hector, of the nurse.
“Grace Newman,” answered the nurse, who felt the necessity of saying something in her own defense. “She’s a perfect little runaway. She worries my life out running round after her.”
“Grace Newman!” said the middle-aged gentleman already referred to. “Why, she must be the child of my friend, Titus Newman, of Pearl Street.”
“Yes, sir,” said the nurse.
“My old friend little knows what a narrow escape his daughter has had.”
“I hope you won’t tell him, sir,” said Mary, nervously.
“Why not?”
“Because he would blame me.”
“And so he ought!” said the gentleman, nodding vigorously. “It’s no merit of yours that she wasn’t crushed beneath the wheels of that carriage. If you had been attending to your duty, she wouldn’t have been in danger.”
“I don’t see as it’s any business of yours,” said Mary, pertly. “You ain’t her father, or her uncle.”