"The Squire does not live at the Hall," said the child, pulling at the
rein, in order to give the horse another direction. "Oh, no; he is _too
poor_ (and he laughed outright) to live there."
"What do you mean, Anthony and why do you call Mr. Hurdlestone the
Squire, instead of papa?"
"He never tells me to call him papa; he never calls me his son, or
'little boy,' or even 'Anthony,' or speaks to me as other fathers speak
to their children. He calls me chit and brat, and rude noisy fellow; and
it's 'Get out of my way, you little wretch! Don't come here to annoy
me.' And how can I call him father or papa, when he treats me as if I
did not belong to him?"
"My dear child, I much fear that you do not love your father."
"How can I, when he does not love me? If he would be kind to me, I would
love him very much; for I have nothing in the world to love but old
Shock, and he's half-starved. But he does love me, and I give him all I
can spare from my meals, and that's little enough. I often wish for
more, for poor Shock's sake; for they say that he was mamma's dog, and
Ruth Candler told me that when mamma died, he used to go every day for
months and lie upon her grave. Now was not that kind of Shock? I wish
papa loved me only half as well as old Shock loved my mother, and I
would not mind being starved, and going about the streets without
shoes.
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