A Girl of the People

ed cobwebs, and scattered dirt, and let in a little fresh air. After all, there were worse rooms in this house than the upstairs unused attic, and the air which blew right down from the sk

nd the kettle boiled, felt quite sociable and almost festive. Bet's heart was lighter than it had been since her mother's death; she did not despair of doing well for he

Bet, as she watched the two small lads polishing off a hearty meal of bread and tea.

own now, both of you, and say your prayers," she said. "Say

'Matthew, Mark, Luke and

ach; and be quick, for I must go

r hands, and went through the Lord's Prayer in high sing-song chanting voices. Th

all,"

Thady, "I'm a-try-ing to thin

ingdom of

ttle child

t your eyes and say what I'm saying-'G

et felt a queer sensation coming into her throat. She kiss

ealth of hair shone with a kind of radiance when she passed under any lamp-post. Her lips were finely set, and she glanced scornfully and with a sort of touch-me-not air at any man or woman who happened to look at her with admiration. Her own defiant young steps and her own proud disdai

ched her hand at the thought of any evil touching them. "Why, it

rl could say "No" to without a sensation of pain. Bet thought of him as bonny. "He's good-yes, he's good," she murmured, and then

dead and la

as broke wi

no man; and I'm not Barbara Allen, and Will will get another girl to be

ning Echo, so many of the Herald. With them tucked under her arm, she soon reached her own special beat, and standing under the lamp-light

thriving business, Bet,"

the best beat in Liverpool, and the gentlemen

penny paper. He gave Bet a penny, who returned him a halfpenny change. When

an a gent like that want with a ha'penny? When I sells evening papers-and I've m

y way. I've nearly sold my papers no

I ha' a mind to have a new beat

-"my beat, what mother b

on, she met her father. He was quite sober, and came up to her at once and put his hand through her

better tell me where you ha' put those two little boys of mine. They're my boys, not yourn, you m

Row-she have the care of them now. And, listen, father-they're going to

ome reason, this piece of informa

been put over you by Providence. You're a bad 'un, you are, Bet Granger; and you'll come to no good e

s are with Mother Bunch, and they'll stay there. Ef you really

so bold as to ask?" inquired

hen they are treated cruel. If you try to get at the boys I'll take 'em to the Refuge,

He saw that his daughter was stronger and had a better case than he could possibly have given her credit for

's your own father? You wouldn't stay in Paradise Row but for me-now, would

stion of like or not like. Mother Bunch's, Paradi

th you to bring up as you could-suppose I was to promise that most solemn, and mean it most faithful; and suppose I wa

louching gait at her side. From head to foot she

you made it faithful and true, and ef you went away from Live

er ch

the town-you, as I'm proud to call my daughter! Look you here, Bet; I'll give up the boys. Maybe I ain't fit for the sacred dooties of father. Maybe I am a bit rough, and a bit strong in my temper. I'll give up the boys, and you shall have them, same as if th

ef I make it I'll keep it.

ad as ever stepped-always sure of his berth, and earning lots of money-a fine, honest, brave jack-tar; and he'll put you in a little place of your ow

cheeks. Had Will Scarlett dared to go to her father. "Who is he?" sh

watching her face

, Bet, and don't send away your sweetheart: no young maid should do that. There-I needn't tell you his name when you know it. Co

't, fa

ad now grown

an't do that either to help myself or the boys, father. But what do you mean?" she added, suddenly,

eet Will Scarlett; for he's away, miles

into a loud,

But I look higher than that strip of a good-for-nought feller for you. It's Isaac Dent, the

hand to he

s, he's cruel; he ain't even honest.

d flew down a dark court,

d him. Like most cruel men, he was a coward. He dared not