"We'll go with you," she said to the man; "only you must be very quick. We want to get to Russell Square early this morning."
"Right you are, lydy," said the man, and he stepped on in front.
The two girls followed him. They walked in this fashion for the greater part of a mile, and all the wonderful dreams that Christian had ever dreamt about the happy life which she and Rosy would spend together disappeared as though they had never existed. She saw herself at last as she was—a very naughty, discontented little runaway girl. She had done nothing great or noble; on the contrary, she had been fearfully disobedient, and had doubtless given intense trouble to those who loved her. She to dare to compare herself to Joan of Arc or Charlotte Corday! She writhed now as she saw herself in her true colors. There was only one thing she was thankful for, and that was for the fact that her father and mother were out of England.
"They at least do not know what I have done," she thought; "and by the time they do know, they will have got my letter, and I'll have told them—oh, yes, I'll have told them—how sorry I am."
Suddenly the man turned and faced the children.
"If you two lydies," he said, "aint hungry, I am. Aint you got any money about yer?"
"Oh, indeed we have," said Christian. "We can give you quite a nice meal if you wish for it."
"But we aint got too much," said Rosy. She nudged her companion and gave her a warning look.
"Here's a shop where they have prime vittles," said the man; and as he spoke he stopped before a common-looking eating-house and beckoned the children to follow him inside.