I had seen Penelope and my lady's maid off in the railway with the

luggage for London, and was pottering about the grounds, when I heard

my name called. Turning round, I found myself face to face with the

fisherman's daughter, Limping Lucy. Bating her lame foot and her

leanness (this last a horrid draw-back to a woman, in my opinion), the

girl had some pleasing qualities in the eye of a man. A dark, keen,

clever face, and a nice clear voice, and a beautiful brown head of

hair counted among her merits. A crutch appeared in the list of her

misfortunes. And a temper reckoned high in the sum total of her defects.

"Well, my dear," I said, "what do you want with me?"

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"Where's the man you call Franklin Blake?" says the girl, fixing me with

a fierce look, as she rested herself on her crutch.

"That's not a respectful way to speak of any gentleman," I answered. "If

you wish to inquire for my lady's nephew, you will please to mention him

as MR. Franklin Blake."

She limped a step nearer to me, and looked as if she could have eaten me

alive. "MR. Franklin Blake?" she repeated after me. "Murderer Franklin

Blake would be a fitter name for him."

My practice with the late Mrs. Betteredge came in handy here. Whenever

a woman tries to put you out of temper, turn the tables, and put HER out

of temper instead. They are generally prepared for every effort you

can make in your own defence, but that. One word does it as well as a

hundred; and one word did it with Limping Lucy. I looked her pleasantly

in the face; and I said--"Pooh!"

The girl's temper flamed out directly. She poised herself on her sound

foot, and she took her crutch, and beat it furiously three times on the

ground. "He's a murderer! he's a murderer! he's a murderer! He has been

the death of Rosanna Spearman!" She screamed that answer out at the top

of her voice. One or two of the people at work in the grounds near

us looked up--saw it was Limping Lucy--knew what to expect from that

quarter--and looked away again.

"He has been the death of Rosanna Spearman?" I repeated. "What makes you

say that, Lucy?"

"What do you care? What does any man care? Oh! if she had only thought

of the men as I think, she might have been living now!"

"She always thought kindly of ME, poor soul," I said; "and, to the best

of my ability, I always tried to act kindly by HER."

I spoke those words in as comforting a manner as I could. The truth is,

I hadn't the heart to irritate the girl by another of my smart replies.

I had only noticed her temper at first. I noticed her wretchedness

now--and wretchedness is not uncommonly insolent, you will find, in

humble life. My answer melted Limping Lucy. She bent her head down, and

laid it on the top of her crutch.




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