Leaning back in his chair, he looked inquiringly at her, and she continued: "You remember Mrs. Leyton, the poor woman who had seen better days, and lived in East Granby?"
"Yes."
"You know she has been sick, and you gave me leave to carry her any thing I chose?"
"Yes."
"Well, she's dead, poor thing, and what is worse, she hain't no connection, nor never had, and her little daughter Rosamond hain't a place to lay her head."
"Let her come and sleep with you, then," said Mr. Browning, rattling his spoon upon the edge of his cup.
"Yes, and what'll she do days?" continued Mrs. Peters. "She can't run the streets, that's so; now, I don't believe no great in children, and you certainly don't b'lieve in 'em at all, nor your poor uncle before you; but Rosamond ain't a child; she's thirteen—most a woman—and if you don't mind the expense, I shan't mind the trouble, and she can live here till she finds a place. Her mother, you know, took up millinering to get a living."
"Certainly, let her come," answered Mr. Browning, who was noted for his benevolence.
This matter being thus satisfactorily settled, Mrs. Peters arose from the table, while Mr. Browning went back to the olden memories which had haunted him so much that day, and with which there was not mingled a single thought of the little Rosamond, who was to exert so strong an influence upon his future life.