farthing to call her own.”
“But what am I to do?” demanded Miss Minchin, as if she felt it entirely his duty to make the matter right. “What am I to do?”
“There isn’t anything to do,” said Mr. Barrow, folding up his eyeglasses and slipping them into his pocket. “Captain Crewe is dead. The child is left a pauper. Nobody is responsible for her but you.”
“I am not responsible for her, and I refuse to be made responsible!”
Miss Minchin became quite white with rage.
Mr. Barrow turned to go.
“I
maid, though it was, in fact, merely a nice, bright little room. But there were pictures and books in it, and curious things from India; there was a sofa and the low, soft chair; Emily sat in a chair of her own, with the air of a presiding goddess, and there was always a glowing fire and a polished