"Did you know my father, ma'am?"
"Yes, indeed! I carried him about in my arms many a time."
"Did you love him, please?"
"Love him, Miss Agnes? that I did! Who could help loving his bright bonnie face? Why, we all loved him, dearie: he was the light and life of the house, but he would have his own way—he would have it, and I fear it led him through a tangled, thorny path."
Agnes looked up at Mrs. Mittens.
"Please, please tell me one thing more, ma'am," she whispered nervously, yet eagerly. "Did my Uncle Hugh love my father?"
"As the apple of his eye, my dearie: there's no mistake about that; he would have given his heart's best blood for him!"
"Did he know my dear father was so sad and so sorry, so poor, so friendless, so—so unhappy?"
"No, child, that he did not. Your father would have none of him; he was proud with the pride that goes before destruction. My master would have loved him, but Master Frank would not."
"Then there has been some dreadful mistake somewhere, ma'am," Agnes said gently, but firmly. "My father was an angel and a martyr. He was not proud or unforgiving, and he suffered, oh, so much! But if you tell me my uncle knew nothing of it, I cannot blame him."