dursn't go far. The street was full
of drunken people and I crept into a doorway and hid there. I suppose I
looked like a beggar, for no one noticed me. Then when the streets were
quieter I came here."

It will be noticed that Lavinia did not think it necessary to mention
the handsome young man who had rescued her.

While she was recounting her adventures her mother, though listening
attentively, was also pondering over the possible consequences. The
story might be true or it might not, whichever it was did not matter. It
was good enough for the purpose she had in her mind.

"Why didn't you go back to Miss Pinwell's?" Mrs. Fenton demanded
sharply. "I see by this scrawl that it isn't the first time you've
stolen out to meet this precious gallant of yours."

And Mrs. Fenton, suddenly producing the letter which she had hitherto
concealed, waved it in her daughter's face. Lavinia flushed angrily and
burst out:--

"You'd no right to read that letter any more than you had to steal it."

"Steal it? Tillyvalley! It's my duty to look after you and I'm going to
do it. Why didn't you go back to the school as you seem to have done
before?"

"Because the key of the front door was in my reticule, and that was
snatched from me or it slipped from my wrist in the scuffle on the
bridge."

"A pretty how de do, my young madam, upon my word. Miss Pinwell'll
never take you back. Goodness knows what may happen. What'll Mr. Gay,
who's been so good to you, think of your base ingratitude?"

Lavinia's eyes filled with tears. She broke down when she thought of the
gentle, good-natured poet. She could only weep silently.

Mrs. Fenton saw the sign of penitence with much satisfaction and while
twirling her wedding ring to assist her thoughts, suddenly said:--

"You haven't told me a word about this spark of yours. Who is he? What
is he? Some draper's 'prentice, I suppose, or footman, may be out of a
place for robbing his master and thinking of turning highwayman."

"Nothing of the kind," cried Lavinia, furious that her mother should
think she would so bemean herself. "I hate him for his falseness, but
he's a born gentleman all the same."

"Oh, is he? Let's hear all about him. There's no address on his letter.
Where does he live?"

"I shan't tell you."

"Because you're ashamed. I shouldn't wonder if he wasn't a trull's bully
from Lewknor's Lane or Whetstone Park. The rascals pass themselves off
as sparks of fashion at ridottos, mas