Sir Waldron's cheek grew pale; he stared at the child, and remained for a few moments silent; then, assuming a stern manner, he said to Agnes rather sharply,—“I suspect you to be a designing, bold, bad child; or the tool of wretches; or, at best, remarkably impudent. Do you know who I am?”
“Sir Waldron Hackle;—at least, so I hope,” was the child's reply;—“the men said they were going to bring us before Sir Waldron Hackle,—and that's you, isn't it?—If not, I've kept my promise to my poor mamma finely;—but it isn't my fault.”
“What mamma? what promise? How you talk, child!—what promise?”
“Not to tell any one who I was, nor to mention my name, until I saw my father.”
“And what is your name?” eagerly inquired Sir Waldron.
“Oh! you know what it is well enough—don't you?”
“How the devil should I?” exclaimed the irritated baronet, who for a moment forgot that he was speaking to a child. “How should I?” he repeated, in somewhat a calmer tone.
“Why, you haven't any more little girls, have you?”
“Ridiculous! Tell me your name, instantly!”
“You won't be angry with me, I hope, for asking you first, if you are Sir Waldron Hackle? My mamma so strictly charged me—”