“Oh, I declare!” said Mrs Bones, with a laugh, “if that place that Tottie’s been tellin’ us of ain’t runnin’ in my ’ead. But I’ve not writ it, Abel, I only said it.”
“Well, then, don’t say it again,” growled Bones, with a suspicious glance at his wife; “write number 6 Little Alley, Birmingham.”
“So—numr sx littlaly bringinghum,” said Mrs Bones, completing her task with a sigh.
When Bones went out to post this curious epistle, his wife took Tottie on her knee, and, embracing her, rocked to and fro, uttering a moaning sound. The child expressed anxiety, and tried to comfort her.
“Come what’s the use o’ strivin’ against it?” she exclaimed suddenly. “She’s sure to come to know it in the end, and I need advice from some one—if it was even from a child.”
Tottie listened with suspense and some anxiety.
“You’ve often told me, mother, that the best advice comes from God. So has Miss Lillycrop.”
Mrs Bones clasped the child still closer, and uttered a short, fervent cry for help.
“Tottie,” she said, “listen—you’re old enough to understand, I think. Your father is a bad man—at least, I won’t say he’s altogether bad, but—but, he’s not good.”
Tottie quite understood that, but said that she was fond of him notwithstanding.