Found at last.
Angela did not quite know how she got out of the house. There was some fuss and some regret on the part of Mrs Johnston, and Mercy very nearly cried, but at last she did get away. She stepped into her little carriage, and drove down the road and went straight as fast as she possibly could to Mrs Hogg’s cottage.
Mrs Hogg was still busy over her washing, but she had come to the wringing stage, and the steam was not quite so thick in the kitchen, and certainly her face, flushed and tired as it was, quite beamed when she saw Angela.
“Dear, dear, Miss Angela, you mustn’t come in. ’Tain’t a fit place to put your dainty, beautiful feet into, ’tain’t really, Miss.”
“Will you come and speak to me here for a minute, Mrs Hogg?” said Angela, and she waited in the tiny porch.
Mrs Hogg came out.
“You have a girl staying with you, haven’t you?”
“Oh, dear me, Miss, so I have, a young girl—I don’t know nothing about her, not even her name, nor a single thing. It was Mary, my daughter, sent her. She’s nothing but a fuss and a worry, and that touchy about her food as never was, turning up her nose at good red herring and at pease pudding, and dumplings, and what more can a poor woman give, I’d like to know?”
“You are sure you don’t know her name?”
“No, Miss. She’s a very queer girl.”