’Yes, he’s the only one, miss, and he’d need be.  I don’t know how I should keep another.  You can’t remember my daughter Ruth?  She was as pretty a girl as you’d care to see.  She was housemaid at Cumber priory in Mrs. Egerton’s time, and she married the butler.  They set up in business in a little public-house in Thornleigh village, and he took to drinking, till everything went to rack and ruin.  My poor girl took the trouble to heart more than her husband did, a great deal; and I believe it was the trouble that killed her.  She died three weeks after that boy was born, and her husband ran away the day after the funeral, and has never been heard of since.  Some say he drowned himself in the Clem; but he was a precious deal too fond of himself for that.  He was up to his eyes in debt, and didn’t leave a sixpence behind him; that’s how Peter came to be thrown on my hands.’

‘Come here, Peter,’ said Milly softly; and the boy went to her directly, and took the hand she offered him.

’You’ve not forgotten me, have you, Peter?  Miss Darrell, who used to talk to you sometimes a long time ago.’

The boy’s vacant face brightened into something like intelligence.

‘I know you, miss,’ he said; ’you was always kind to Peter.  It’s not many that I know; but I know you.’

She took out her purse and gave him half-a-crown.

’There, Peter, there’s a big piece of silver for your own self, to buy whatever you like—­sugar-sticks, gingerbread, marbles—­anything.’

His clumsy hand closed upon the coin, and I have no doubt he was pleased by the donation; but he never took his eyes from Milly Darrell’s face.  That bright lovely face seemed to exercise a kind of fascination upon him.

’Don’t you think Peter would be better if you were to give him a little more air and sunshine, Mrs. Thatcher?’ Milly asked presently; ‘that bedroom seems rather a dark close place.’

‘He needn’t be there unless he likes,’ Mrs. Thatcher answered indifferently.  ‘He sits out of doors whenever he chooses.’

’Then I should always sit out-of-doors on fine days, if I were you, Peter,’ said Milly.

After this she talked a little to Mrs. Thatcher, who was by no means a sympathetic person, while I sat looking on, and contemplating the old woman with a feeling that was the reverse of admiration.

She was of a short squat figure, with broad shoulders and no throat to speak of, and her head seemed too big for her body.  Her face was long and thin, with large features, and a frame of scanty gray hair, among which a sandy tinge still lingered here and there; her eyes were of an ugly reddish-brown, and had, I thought, a most sinister expression.  I must have been very ill, and sorely at a loss for a doctor, before I could have been induced to trust my health to the care of Mrs. Rebecca Thatcher.

I told Milly as much while we were walking homewards, and she admitted that Rebecca Thatcher was no favourite even among the country people, who believed implicitly in her skill.