Angelina had been for some time past feeling in her pocket for her purse.
“‘Tis gone—certainly gone!” she exclaimed: “I’ve lost it! lost my purse! Betty, do you know any thing of it? I had it at Mrs. Plait’s!—What shall I do for this poor little fellow?—This trinket is of gold!” said she, taking from her neck a locket—“Here, my little fellow, I have no money to give you, take this—nay, you must, indeed.”
“Tanks! tanks! bread for my poor fader! joy! joy!—too much joy! too much!”
“You see you were wrong to laugh at her,” whispered Clara Hope to her companions: “I liked her lukes from the first.”
Natural feeling, at this moment, so entirely occupied and satisfied Angelina, that she forgot her sensibility for her unknown friend; and it was not till one of the children observed the lock of hair in her locket that she recollected her accustomed cant of—“Oh, my Araminta! my amiable Araminta! could I part with that hair, more precious than gold?”
“Pless us!” said Betty; “put, if she has lost her purse, who shall pay for the coach, and what will become of our tinners?”
Angelina silenced Betty Williams with peremptory dignity.
Mrs. Porett, who was a good and sensible woman, and who had been interested for our heroine, by her good-nature to the little French boy, followed Miss Warwick as she left the room. “Let me detain you but for a few minutes,” said she, opening the door of a little study. “You have nothing to fear from any impertinent curiosity on my part; but, perhaps, I may be of some assistance to you.”—Miss Warwick could not refuse to be detained a few minutes by so friendly a voice.
“Madam, you have mentioned the name of Araminta several times since you came into this house,” said Mrs. Porett, with something of embarrassment in her manner, for she was afraid of appearing impertinent. “I know, or at least I knew, a lady who writes under that name, and whose real name is Hodges.”
“Oh, a thousand, thousand thanks!” cried Angelina: “tell me, where can I find her?”