“If the law supposes that,” said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, “the law is a ass—a idiot. If that’s the eye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be opened by experience—by experience.”
Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his helpmate downstairs.
“Young lady,” said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, “give me your hand. Do not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we have to say.”
“If they have—I do not know how they can, but if they have—any reference to me,” said Rose, “pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not strength or spirits now.”
“Nay,” returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; “you have more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?”
“Yes,” replied Monks.
“I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly.
“I have seen you often,” returned Monks.
“The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr. Brownlow. “What was the fate of the other—the child?”
“The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.”