“Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hexam,” then began Miss Potterson, “how often have I held out to you the opportunity of getting clear of your father, and doing well?”

“Very often, Miss”

“Very often? Yes! And I might as well have spoken to the iron funnel of the strongest sea-going steamer that passes the Fellowship-Porters.”

“No, Miss,” Lizzie pleaded; “because that would not be thankful, and I am.”

“I vow and declare I am half ashamed of myself for taking such an interest in you,” said Miss Abbey, pettishly, “for I don’t believe I should do it if you were not good-looking. Why ain’t you ugly?”

Lizzie merely answered this difficult question with an apologetic glance.

“However, you ain’t,” resumed Miss Potterson, “so it’s no use going into that. I must take you as I find you. Which indeed is what I’ve done. And you mean to say you are still obstinate?”

“Not obstinate, Miss, I hope.”

“Firm (I suppose you call it) then?”

“Yes, Miss Fixed like.”

“Never was an obstinate person yet, who would own to the word!” remarked Miss Potterson, rubbing her vexed nose; “I’m sure I would, if I was obstinate; but I am a pepperer, which is different. Lizzie Hexam, Lizzie Hexam, think again. Do you know the worst of your father?”

“Do I know the worst of father!” she repeated, opening her eyes.

“Do you know the suspicions to which your father makes himself liable? Do you know the suspicions that are actually about, against him?”

The consciousness of what he habitually did, oppressed the girl heavily, and she slowly cast down her eyes.

“Say, Lizzie. Do you know?” urged Miss Abbey.

“Please to tell me what the suspicions are, Miss,” she asked after a silence, with her eyes upon the ground.

“It’s not an easy thing to tell a daughter, but it must be told. It is thought by some, then, that your father helps to their death a few of those that he finds dead.”

The relief of hearing what she felt sure was a false suspicion, in place of the expected real and true one, so lightened Lizzie’s breast for the moment, that Miss Abbey was amazed at her demeanour. She raised her eyes quickly, shook her head, and, in a kind of triumph, almost laughed.

“They little know father who talk like that!”

(“She takes it,” thought Miss Abbey, “very quietly. She takes it with extraordinary quietness!”)

“And perhaps,” said Lizzie, as a recollection flashed upon her, “it is some one who has a grudge against father; some one who has threatened father! Is it Riderhood, Miss?”

“Well; yes it is.”