"It is the friend mother trusted me to, when she—when she—"
"Yes, I understand," said Mrs. Mowbray gently. "Why does not this friend take care of you then, instead of leaving you to your aunt?"
"O he does take care of me," cried Rotha; "but he is in England; he is not here. He had to go home because his father was very ill—dying, I suppose."
"He?" repeated Mrs. Mowbray. "A gentleman?"
"Yes, ma'am. He was the only friend that took care of mother. He got those things for me."
"What is his name, my dear?"
"Mr. Digby. I mean, Mr. Southwode. I always used to call him Mr. Digby."
"Digby Southwode!" said Mrs. Mowbray. "But he is a young gentleman."
"O yes," said Rotha. "He is not old. He was called away, back to England suddenly, and aunt Serena hindered my knowing, and hindered him somehow from seeing me at all to say a word to me before he went. And I never can forgive her for it,—never, never!"
"Hush, my dear," said Mrs. Mowbray softly. "Your aunt may have thought she had good reasons. How came you under your aunt's care then?"