"Yes, Frederick," said the boy.
"He is at home—at least I think so," answered Farnham, speaking with kindly respect, as if he had not regarded the torn hat and humble garb in which his visitor came, but thought it the most natural thing in life that a boy like that should inquire thus familiarly after his son, "I am almost certain that Fred is at home."
"I do not know where he lives," said the lad, hesitating, and drawing a step forward as if held in that presence by some irresistible influence.
"Indeed," said the Mayor, holding out his hand, "but you know my son!"
Joseph came forward and placed his little slender hand in that so irresistibly, as it seemed, held towards him. The same tremor, too keen for pleasure and too exquisite for pain, ran through the proud man and the gentle boy while their fingers came lovingly together.
"He visits us sometimes, and you cannot think how much my father loves him."
"But he must love you better," said Farnham, sweeping his hand down the boy's golden hair with caressing gentleness.
"I don't know," said Joseph with a faint sigh, "but he loves me a great deal, I am sure of that!"
"And where do you live?" questioned Farnham, rather as an excuse to keep the boy's hand in his, than from a desire for information.
Joseph mentioned the street and number of his residence.