“Who’s its mother?”
“’Tis no matter about that. Dan Cupid did it.”
“You’re making a mock of me. Who is his mother? Where is she? You’re fooling, Dan, you’re fooling!”
“I’m making no mock of anyone. There, there’s a bonny grandson for you!”
Meg gathered the child into her arms, peering into its face, perhaps to find some answer to the riddle, perhaps to divine a familiar likeness. But there was nothing in its soft smooth features that at all resembled her rugged Dan’s.
“Who are you? What’s your little name?”
The child whispered: “Martin.”
“It’s a pretty, pretty thing, Dan.”
“Ah!” said her son, “that’s his mother. We were rare fond of each other—once. Now she’s wedd’n another chap and I’ve took the boy, for it’s best that way. He’s five year old. Don’t ask me about her, it’s our secret and always has been. It was a good secret and a grand secret, and it was well kept. That’s her ring.”
The child’s thumb had a ring upon it, a golden ring with a small green stone. The thumb was crooked, and he clasped the ring safely.