“Don’t send me away, Fan. Think of what you used to be, and have some pity for me. I am sick of the old life. I have walked all the way from London because I want to be good, and have a home, and be saved like you are.” And poor Drom’s voice died away in a sob.
“There is no room here for you,” said Fanny, endeavouring to disregard the words which still lingered in her ears. She did not want to pass on to this interloper the good which she valued so highly.
“No room? It is a wide place, and not crowded,” said Drom. “I am very tired, for the way was long and dreary. You cannot mean that you will not take me in after all? You have not been served so yourself, Fanny.”
It was very true. The girl of the slums had become gentle, and refined, and very happy, all because some one had taken her into a loving heart, and she had been dealt with tenderly and graciously by the Divine Friend and the human ones. She looked across at the western skies, with the beautiful evening glow upon them and hesitated. One more would make very little difference here, where there was enough and to spare of all good things. That she knew, but did not wish to remember it now. It vexed her exceedingly that this girl, whom she had never liked, but who would always remind her of the worst part of the old life, should have followed her there, and should still be so persistent.
“You have not brought any clothes with you, I suppose?”
“No, I had none to bring. There was but little work all the winter for me, and I have been only able to keep myself, poorly enough, too; there have been very few luxuries for me, I can tell you. Oh, Fan, I am so sick of the old life. Can’t you help me to a chance?”
“You know, Drom, this place is a private estate. No one has any right here except by Mr. Knight’s permission.”
“Oh, yes, I quite understand that. But you might speak for me, or get the Basket Woman to do it.”
The colour flashed into Fanny’s face.
“The Basket Woman?” she said. “The lady of whom you speak is Miss Wythburn.”