e jink of a tanner than a quid in these cussed times. You
won't skear me if I come down?'

'No, no.'

At last I heard her fumbling inside at the lock, and then the door
opened.

'Why, man alive! your eyes are afire jist like a cat's wi' drownded
kitlins.'

'She was not your daughter.'

'Not my darter?' said she, as she stooped to pick up the sovereign.
'You ain't a-goin' to catch me the likes o' that. The Beauty not my
darter! All the court knows she was my own on'y darter. I'll swear
afore all the beaks in London as I'm the mother of my own on'y darter
Winifred, allus' wur 'er mother, and allus wull be; an' if she went
a-beggin' it worn't my fort. She liked beggin', poor dear; some gals
does.'

'Her name Winifred!' I cried, with a pang at my heart as sharp as
though there had been a reasonable hope till now.

'In course her name was Winifred.'

'Liar! How came she to be called Winifred?'

'Well, I'm sure! Mayn't a Welshman's wife give her own on'y Welsh
darter a Welsh name? Us poor folks is come to somethink! P'raps
you'll say I ain't a Welshman's wife next? It's your own cussed lot
as killed her, ain't it? What did I tell the shiny Quaker when fust I
tookt her to the studero? I sez to the shiny un, "She's jist a bit
touched here," I sez' (tapping her own head), '"and nothink upsets
her so much as to be arsted a lot o' questions," I sez to the shiny
un. "The less you talks to her," I sez, "the better you'll get on
with her," I sez, "and the better kind o' pictur you'll make out on
her," I sez to the shiny un; "an' don't you go an' arst who her
father is," I sez, "for that word 'ull bring such a horful look on
her face," I sez, "as is enough to skear anybody to death. I sha'n't
forget the look the fust time I seed it," I sez. That's what I sez to
the shiny Quaker. An' yit you did go an' worrit 'er, a-arstin' 'er a
lot o' questions about 'er father. You _did_--I know you did! You
_must_ 'a done it--so no lies; for that wur the on'y thing as ever
skeared 'er, arstin' 'er about 'er father, pore dear....Why, man
alive! what _are_ you a-gurnin' at? an' what are you a-smackin' your
forred wi' your 'and like that for, an' a-gurnin' in my face like a
Chessy cat? Blow'd if I don't b'lieve you're drunk. An' who the
dickens are you a-callin' a fool, Mr. Imperance?'

It was not the woman but myself I was cursing when I cried out,
'Fool! besotted fool!'

Not till now had the wild hope fled which had led me back to th