“No, they died when I was quite a little thing.”
“My father’s livin’ right enough,” he volunteered. “He’s a fine old chap, my father is.”
“You’re Keeper Formby, bain’t ye?” inquired Rebecca with interest.
“Eh! ye know me, do ye? A good few folks do, I doubt.” Here Robert drew himself up; he felt what was due to himself as a public character and once more his voice took a graver inflection. “Now, see you, my lass, you mustn’t coom here again.”
“I’m to have nothin’, an’ to do nothin’,” broke out Rebecca passionately. “’Tis the only thing I care for, comin’ here where I did use to walk when—when I was happy.”
Robert paused with a potato midway to his mouth.
“Is he dead?” he inquired in a tone of respectful sympathy.
“Who?”
“Your young man.”
“No,” she returned sharply, adding unwillingly, as if in response to his expectant gaze, “he’s gone away.”