Ellen did not believe him, but she looked at him with a “Lor’!  Master Ernest,” and dried her eyes at once.  The ice was broken between them, for as a matter of fact Ellen had been in prison several times, and though she did not believe Ernest, his merely saying he had been in prison made her feel more at ease with him.  For her there were two classes of people, those who had been in prison and those who had not.  The first she looked upon as fellow-creatures and more or less Christians, the second, with few exceptions, she regarded with suspicion, not wholly unmingled with contempt.

Then Ernest told her what had happened to him during the last six months, and by-and-by she believed him.

“Master Ernest,” said she, after they had talked for a quarter of an hour or so, “There’s a place over the way where they sell tripe and onions.  I know you was always very fond of tripe and onions, let’s go over and have some, and we can talk better there.”

So the pair crossed the street and entered the tripe shop; Ernest ordered supper.

“And how is your pore dear mamma, and your dear papa, Master Ernest,” said Ellen, who had now recovered herself and was quite at home with my hero.  “Oh, dear, dear me,” she said, “I did love your pa; he was a good gentleman, he was, and your ma too; it would do anyone good to live with her, I’m sure.”

Ernest was surprised and hardly knew what to say.  He had expected to find Ellen indignant at the way she had been treated, and inclined to lay the blame of her having fallen to her present state at his father’s and mother’s door.  It was not so.  Her only recollection of Battersby was as of a place where she had had plenty to eat and drink, not too much hard work, and where she had not been scolded.  When she heard that Ernest had quarrelled with his father and mother she assumed as a matter of course that the fault must lie entirely with Ernest.

“Oh, your pore, pore ma!” said Ellen.  “She was always so very fond of you, Master Ernest:  you was always her favourite; I can’t abear to think of anything between you and her.  To think now of the way she used to have me into the dining-room and teach me my catechism, that she did!  Oh, Master Ernest, you really must go and make it all up with her; indeed you must.”

Ernest felt rueful, but he had resisted so valiantly already that the devil might have saved himself the trouble of trying to get at him through Ellen in the matter of his father and mother.  He changed the subject, and the pair warmed to one another as they had their tripe and pots of beer.  Of all people in the world Ellen was perhaps the one to whom Ernest could have spoken most freely at this juncture.  He told her what he thought he could have told to no one else.

“You know, Ellen,” he concluded, “I had learnt as a boy things that I ought not to have learnt, and had never had a chance of that which would have set me straight.”