“Yes, the boy’s name is Humphrey, too; but he can get no nearer to it than Honey, and so he is called.”
“Well, that’s not in the case,” said Jimmy, with an air of importance which was rather funny. “He’d a father, I suppose, this Muirhead?”
Parker glanced quickly at Agnes, kneeling by the trundle-bed. “He had a father who was captured and probably killed by the Indians.”
“Correct agin,” said Jimmy. “There was another child, a daughter, was there? Why—faith! if this isn’t a purty how-de-do. Come here, Nancy,” he called sharply. Agnes came over and sat down again by her father. “What’s your mother’s name?” asked Jimmy.
“Margaret Kennedy.”
“And before she was married?”
“Margaret Muirhead.”
“Of Carlisle?”
“Yes, of Carlisle. She is the daughter of Humphrey Muirhead.”
“Then,”—Jimmy leaned back and carefully spread out upon his knee a bit of paper, the worse for wear,—“it’s a quare thing I’ve here, an’ it’s quarer still that I ’ud be bringin’ it at wanst to the right place, an’ that I come mesel’ fust off without so much as knowin’ where I was. But the workin’s av Providence is mortial strange. This here bit o’ paper on me knee here,”—he tapped it with his heavy finger,—“this here’s nothin’ less than a will, yer gran’ther’s will, Nancy Kennedy.”