“What’s your name?”
“Mary.”
“Ay! did your father give you that name?”
“My father?” echoed the girl, looking hastily up.
“Ay, did Dick give it you?”
“Did him tell you him’s name be Dick?” asked Mary.
“Oh! he’s known by another name to you, then, it would seem. But, Mary, what is his name?”
The girl pursed her mouth and laid her finger on it. Then, with a little sad smile, said—
“Him tell you Dick, that be good name. But Dick not my father. My father dead.”
The poor thing said this so slowly and in such a low pathetic tone that March felt sorry for having unwittingly touched a tender chord. He hastened to change the subject by saying—