"_Chancery!_" she said, nodding. "Chancery'll 'ave 'em, in a
twelvemonth's time from now, if Mrs. Jack Murthly's Tom--young
Tom--don't claim 'em from South Africa--and the Lord knows where
_ee_ is!"
Diana tried to follow, held captive by a tyrannical pair of eyes.
"And what relation is Mrs. Jack Murthly to the man who died?"
"Brother's wife!" said Betty, sharply. "I thought you'd ha' known that."
"But if nothing is heard of the son, Betty--of young Tom--Mrs. Murthly's
two daughters will have the cottages, won't they?"
Betty's scorn made her rattle her stick on the flagged floor.
"They ain't daughters!--they're only 'alves."
"Halves?" said Diana, bewildered.
"Jack Murthly worn't their father!" A fresh shower of nods. "Yo may take
it at that!"
"Well, then, who--?"
Betty bent hastily forward--Diana had placed herself on a stool before
her--and, thrusting out her wrinkled lips, said, in a hoarse whisper:
"Two fathers!"
There was a silence.
"I don't understand, Betty," said Diana, softly.
"Jack was '_is_ father, all right--Tom's in South Africa. But he worn't
_their_ father, Mrs. Jack bein' a widder--or said so.
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