Here, what’s your name! Your father has absconded—deserted you—and you mustn’t expect to see him again as long as you live.”

They cared so little for plain Fact, these people, and were in that advanced state of degeneracy on the subject that, instead of being impressed by the speaker’s strong common sense, they took it in extraordinary dudgeon. The men muttered “Shame!” and the women “Brute!” and Sleary, in some haste, communicated the following hint, apart to Mr. Bounderby.

“I tell you what, Thquire. To thpeak plain to you, my opinion ith that you had better cut it thort and drop it. They’re a very good-natur’d people, my people, but they’re accuthtomed to be quick in their movementh; and if you don’t act upon my advithe, I’m damned if I don’t believe they’ll pith you out o’ winder.”

Mr. Bounderby being restrained by this mild suggestion, Mr. Gradgrind found an opening for his eminently practical exposition of the subject.

“It is of no moment,” said he, “whether this person is to be expected back at any time, or the contrary. He is gone away, and there is no present expectation of his return. That, I believe, is agreed on all hands.”

“Thath agreed, Thquire, Thtick to that!” From Sleary.

“Well then. I, who came here to inform the father of the poor girl, Jupe, that she could not be received at the school any more in consequence of there being practical objections, into which I need not enter, to the reception there of the children of persons so employed, am prepared in these altered circumstances to make a proposal. I am willing to take charge of you, Jupe, and to educate you and provide for you. The only condition (over and above your good behaviour) I make is that you decide now, at once, whether to accompany me or remain here. Also, that if you accompany me now, it is understood that you communicate no more with any of your friends who are here present. These observations comprise the whole of the case.”

“At the thame time,” said Sleary, “I mutht put in my word, Thquire, tho that both thides of the banner may be equally theen. If you like, Thethilia, to be ’prentitht, you know the natur of the work and you know your companionth. Emma Gordon, in whothe lap you’re a-lying at prethent, would be a mother to you, and Joth’phine would be a thither to you. I don’t pretend to be of the angel breed mythelf, and I don’t thay but what, when you mith’d your tip, you’d find me cut up rough and thwear an oath or two at you. But what I thay, Thquire, ith that, good tempered or bad tempered, I never did a horthe a injury yet, no more than thwearing at him went, and that I don’t expect I thall begin otherwithe at my time of life with a rider. I never wath much of a cackler, Thquire, and I have thed my thay.”

The latter part of this speech was addressed to Mr. Gradgrind, who received it with a grave inclination of his head, and then remarked:

“The only observation I will make to you, Jupe, in the way of influencing your decision is, that it is highly desirable to have a sound practical education, and that even your father himself, from what I understand, appears, on your behalf, to have known and felt that much.”

The last words had a visible effect upon her. She stopped in her wild crying, a little detached herself from Emma Gordon, and turned her face full upon her patron. The whole company perceived the force of the change, and drew a long breath together that plainly said, “She will go!”

“Be sure you know your own mind, Jupe,” Mr. Gradgrind cautioned her. “I say no more. Be sure you know your own mind!”

“When Father comes back,” cried the girl, bursting into tears again after a minute’s silence, “how will he ever find me if I go away?”

“You may be quite at ease,” said Mr. Gradgrind, calmly; he worked out the whole matter like a sum: “You may be quite at ease, Jupe, on that score. In such a case, your father, I apprehend, must find out Mr.——”

“Thleary. Thath my name, Thquire. Not athamed of it. Known all over England, and alwayth payth hith way.”

“Must find out Mr.