“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.

“I loved her,” the girl said softly.  “She had lived a miserable life, Mr. Betteredge—­vile people had ill-treated her and led her wrong—­and it hadn’t spoiled her sweet temper.  She was an angel.  She might have been happy with me.  I had a plan for our going to London together like sisters, and living by our needles.  That man came here, and spoilt it all.  He bewitched her.  Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it, and didn’t know it.  He ought to have known it.  He ought to have taken pity on her.  ‘I can’t live without him—­and, oh, Lucy, he never even looks at me.’  That’s what she said.  Cruel, cruel, cruel.  I said, ’No man is worth fretting for in that way.’  And she said, ’There are men worth dying for, Lucy, and he is one of them.’  I had saved up a little money.  I had settled things with father and mother.  I meant to take her away from the mortification she was suffering here.  We should have had a little lodging in London, and lived together like sisters.  She had a good education, sir, as you know, and she wrote a good hand.  She was quick at her needle.  I have a good education, and I write a good hand.  I am not as quick at my needle as she was—­but I could have done.  We might have got our living nicely.  And, oh! what happens this morning? what happens this morning?  Her letter comes and tells me that she has done with the burden of her life.  Her letter comes, and bids me good-bye for ever.  Where is he?” cries the girl, lifting her head from the crutch, and flaming out again through her tears.  “Where’s this gentleman that I mustn’t speak of, except with respect?  Ha, Mr. Betteredge, the day is not far off when the poor will rise against the rich.  I pray Heaven they may begin with him.  I pray Heaven they may begin with him.”

Here was another of your average good Christians, and here was the usual break-down, consequent on that same average Christianity being pushed too far!  The parson himself (though I own this is saying a great deal) could hardly have lectured the girl in the state she was in now.  All I ventured to do was to keep her to the point—­in the hope of something turning up which might be worth hearing.