"Grace Newman," answered the nurse, who felt the necessity of saying
something in her own defense. "She's a perfect little runaway. She
worries my life out running round after her."
"Grace Newman!" said the middle-aged gentleman already referred to.
"Why, she must be the child of my friend, Titus Newman, of Pearl
Street."
"Yes, sir," said the nurse.
"My old friend little knows what a narrow escape his daughter has
had."
"I hope you won't tell him, sir," said Mary, nervously.
"Why not?"
"Because he would blame me."
"And so he ought!" said the gentleman, nodding vigorously. "It's no
merit of yours that she wasn't crushed beneath the wheels of that
carriage. If you had been attending to your duty, she wouldn't have
been in danger."
"I don't see as it's any business of yours," said Mary, pertly. "You
ain't her father, or her uncle."
"I am a father, and have common humanity," said the gentleman, "and
I consider you unfit for your place."
"Come along, Grace!" said Mary, angry at being blamed.
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