With slowly gathering colour, Mrs Pratt now came to my assistance. 'Mr Farrar was the gentleman who—paid for your schooling and all that, Marian, dear—the quarterly allowance came from him.'
'And who was he?'
'Your father!' returned her aunt, in a low broken voice: 'and these ladies have come to tell us that he has been ill, and—and'——
'He is dead!' said Marian; taking note of our black clothes, and becoming as pale as one of her complexion could become.
'Come!' I thought, not a little relieved, 'she can feel.' But I very quickly found that I had been somewhat premature in giving her credit upon that account. It is possible to feel without the feeling being worth very much. I saw in what way she was touched, as she went on, with a little catch in her breath, looking from one to the other of us: 'What has he left me?'
We were silent; and putting the right construction upon our silence, she hurriedly added: 'You don't mean to say he hasn't left me anything, after'——
Without any further anxiety on the score of her feelings, I put in: 'Mr Farrar has left no will, Miss Reed; and all his property comes to this young lady—his daughter.'
'Then I say it is mean, and shameful—downright shameful! and'——
'Hush, Marian, pray; Marian, dear, you forget!' pleaded Mrs Pratt, laying her hand upon the girl's arm.
'Am I not his daughter too? Am I not to say a word if I am left a beggar, after being always led on to expect to be a lady? It is shameful; and I do not care who hears me say so!' Flashing a look of angry defiance at us.