The thought darted across him--"If I had ever
held Lydia so!" It was a pang; but it passed; and what remained was a
tenderness of soul, evoked by Lydia, but passing out now beyond Lydia.
Poor little foolish thing! He supposed she had been trampled on, as his
mother had been. But his mother could defend herself. What chance had
this child against the old tyrant! An eager, protective sympathy--a
warm pity--arose in him; greatly quickened by this hand and arm that
clung to him.
The rain began to drive against them.
"Do you mind getting wet?" he said laughing, almost in her ear.
"Not a bit! I--I didn't mean to give any trouble."
The tone was penitent. Tatham, forgetting all thoughts of admonition,
reassured her.
"You didn't give any. Except--Your mother of course was very anxious
about you."
"But I couldn't tell her!" sighed the voice on his shoulder. "She'd have
stopped it."
Tatham smiled unseen.
"I'm afraid your father wasn't kind to you," he said, after a pause.
"It was horrible--horrible!" The little body he held shuddered closer to
him. "Why does he hate us so? and I lost my temper too--I stamped at him.
But he looks so old--so old! I think he'll die soon."
"That would be happiest," said Tatham, gravely.
"I told him we would never take any money from him again. I must earn
it--I will! Your mother will lend me a little--for my training. I'll pay
it back."
"You poor child!" he murmured.
At that moment they emerged upon the last section of the broad avenue
leading to the house.
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