“Oh,” she cries, clasping her hands wildly, “surely, surely you have not killed her!”
And now Mamma has resumed her mask. “My child,” she says, coming close to Leslie, “you’re excited. We don’t know where to find that child. What can we do?”
Back to Leslie’s face comes that look of set calm, and she sinks upon the chair she had lately occupied.
“Do your worst!” she says between tightly clenched teeth. “You know that I do not, that I never shall, believe you. You say you are my mother,” flashing two blazing eyes upon Mamma, “take care of your child, then. Make of me a rag-picker, if you like. Henceforth I am nothing, nobody, save the daughter of the Francoises!”
Again, for a moment, the faces that regard her present a study. And this time it is Franz who is the first to speak, Coming forward somewhat unsteadily, he doffs his ragged old cap, and extends to her a hand not overclean.
“Partner, shake!” he says in tones of marked admiration. “Ye’re clean grit! If ye’re my sister, I’m proud of ye. If ye ain’t, and ye ’pear to think ye ain’t, then it’s my loss, an’,” with a leer at the old pair, “yer gain. Anyhow, I’m yer second in this young-un business. Ye kin stay right here, ef ye want ter, and, by thunder, ef the old uns have got yer little gal, ye shall have her back agin—ye hear me! Ain’t ye goin’ ter shake? I wish yer would. I’m a rough feller, Missy; I’ve allers been a hard case, and I’ve just got over a penitentiary stretch—ye’ll hear o’ that soon enough, ef ye stay here. The old un likes to remind me of it when she ain’t amiable. Never mind that; maybe I ain’t all bad. Anyway, I’m goin’ to stand by ye, and don’t ye feel oneasy.”
Again he extends his hand, and Leslie looks at it, and then up into his face.
“Oh, if I could trust you!” she murmurs. “If you would help me!”
“I kin;” says Franz promptly, “an’ I will!”
Again she hesitates, looking upon the uncouth figure and the unwashed hand. Then she lifts her eyes to his face.