“In the neighbour’ood of W’itechapel, Miss Di.”
“Then, papa, we will go straight off to see him,” said the child, in the tone of one whose mind is fully made up. “You and I shall go together—won’t we? good papa!”
“That will do, Balls, you may go. No, my dear Di, I think we had better not. I will write to one of the city missionaries whom I know, and ask him to—”
“No, but, papa—dear papa, we must go. The city missionary could never say how very, very sorry I am that he should have broken his leg while helping me. And then I should so like to sit by him and tell him stories, and give him his soup and gruel, and read to him. Poor, poor boy, we must go, papa, won’t you?”
“Not to-day, dear. It is impossible to go to-day. There, now, don’t begin to cry. Perhaps—perhaps to-morrow—but think, my love; you have no idea how dirty—how very nasty—the places are in which our lower orders live.”
“Oh! yes I have,” said Di eagerly. “Haven’t I seen our nursery on cleaning days?”
A faint flicker of a smile passed over the knight’s countenance.
“True, darling, but the places are far, far dirtier than that. Then the smells. Oh! they are very dreadful—”
“What—worse than we have when there’s cabbage for dinner?”
“Yes, much worse than that.”