Capt. Harrington. He did not chide her as she supposed he would,
neither did he seem in the least surprised to see her there. On
the contrary, his withered, wrinkled face brightened with a look
of eager expectancy, as he said to her, "Little girl, can you tell
me where Charlie is?"

"Charlie?" she repeated, retreating a step or two as he approached
nearer and seemed about to lay his hand upon her hair, for her
bonnet was hanging down her back, and her wild gipsy locks fell in
rich profusion about her face. "I don't know any boy by that name,
I'm nobody but Edith Hastings, Mrs. Atherton's waiting maid, and
she don't let me play with boys. Only Tim Doolittle and I went
huckleberrying once, but I hate him, he has such great warts on
his hands," and having thus given her opinion of Tim Doolittle,
Edith snatched up her bonnet and placed it upon her head, for the
old man was evidently determined to touch her crow-black hair.

Her answer, however, changed the current of his thoughts, and
while a look of intense pain flitted across his face, he whispered
mournfully, "The same old story they all tell. I might have known
it, but this one looked so fresh, so truthful, that I thought
maybe she'd seen him. Mrs. Atherton's waiting maid," and he turned
toward Edith--"Charlie's dead, and we all walk in darkness now,
Richard and all."

This allusion to Richard reminded Edith of her errand, and
thinking to herself, "I'll ask the crazy old thing if there's a
lady here," she ran after him as he walked slowly away and
catching him by the arm, said, "Tell me, please, is there any Mrs.
Richard Harrington?"