be bound; though I cannot say as I’ve done all as I should do here below.”
“But, Dixon,” said Ellinor, “you know who did this—this”
“Guilty o’ murder,” said he. “That’s what they called it. Murder! And that it never were, choose who did it.”
“My poor, poor father did it. I am going up to London this afternoon; I am going to see the judge, and tell him all.”
“Don’t you demean yourself to that fellow, missy. It’s him as left you in the lurch as soon as sorrow and shame came nigh you.”
He looked up at her now, for the first time; but she went on as if she had not noticed those wistful, weary eyes.
“Yes! I shall go to him. I know who it is; and I am resolved. After all, he may be better than a stranger, for real help; and I shall never remember any—anything else, when I think of you, good faithful friend.”
“He looks but a wizened old fellow in his grey wig. I should hardly ha’ known him. I gave him a look, as much as to say, ‘I could tell tales o’ you, my lord judge, if I chose.’ I don’t know if he heeded me, though. I suppose it were for a sign of old acquaintance that he said he’d recommend me to
