"Yes," Tilda nodded. "We're goin' to the 'orspital all right.
That's why I came to fetch yer. There's someone wants to see yer, ever
so bad."

"I know about the Good Samaritan," announced the boy.

Tilda stared.

"I bet yer don't," she contradicted.

"He found a man, a traveller, that some thieves had hurt and left by the
road. Going down to Jericho, it was; and he poured oil and wine into
his wounds."

"Oh, cheese it!" said Tilda. "Oo's a-kiddin' now? An' see 'ere, Arthur
Miles--it don't matter with me, a lie up or down; I'm on'y Tilda.
But don't you pick up the 'abit, or else you'll annoy me. I can't tell
why ezactly, but it don't _sit_ on you."

"Tilda?" The boy caught up her name like an echo. "Tilda what?"

"The Lord knows. Tilda _nothin'_--Tilda o' Maggs's, if you like, an'
nobody's child, anyway."

"But that isn't _possible_," he said, after thinking a moment.
"They called me that sometimes, back--back--"

"At the Orph'nige, eh? 'Oo called you that? The Doctor? No," said
Tilda hurriedly, as he halted with a shiver, "don't look be'ind; 'e's
not anywhere near. An' as for the Good Samaritan, you're wrong about