"Thank you for your hearty welcome," said the captain, hurriedly; "but
where's my daughter? Is she out of doors this cold winter day, gadding
about London streets?--or how the deuce is it she doesn't come to give
her old father a kiss, and bid him welcome home?"
"Lor', sir," cried Mrs. Mugby, "you don't mean to say as you haven't
heard from Miss Rosa--begging your pardon, Mrs. Jernam--but the other
do come so much more natural?"
"Heard from her!" exclaimed the captain. "Not I, I haven't had a line
from her. But heaven have mercy on us! how the woman does stare! There
isn't anything wrong with my daughter, is there? She's well--eh?"
The captain's honest face grew pale, as a sudden fear arose in his
mind.
"Don't tell me my daughter is ill," he gasped; "or worse--"
"No, no, no, captain," cried Mrs. Mugby. "I heard from Mrs. Jernam only
a week ago, and she was quite well; but she is residing down in
Devonshire, where she removed with her husband last July; and I made
sure you would have received a letter telling you of the change."
"What!" roared Joseph Duncombe; "did my daughter go and turn her back
upon the comfortable little box her father built for her--the place he
spent his hard-won earnings upon for her sake? So Rosy got tired of the
cottage, did she? It wasn't good enough for her, I suppose. Well, well,
that does seem rather hard somehow--it does seem hard.
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