"There—there," said the old man, more gently. "I did not mean it. Go, my son if you wish, I will not stop you, but do not give much love to any one but your father, he has had so little, so very little on earth. Don't let this man get your heart away from me."
"Away from you, my own, own father?" said Joseph, grieved, and deeply hurt.
"Well—well, all this is foolish talk—but I am getting very childish. It ages one so to live alone, Joseph, you would not believe it, but I am a younger man by five years than the Mayor."
"The Mayor has grown very old since I first saw him father, you would be astonished!"
"Then you have seen him more than once?"
"Yes; he comes to Mrs. Peters, now, almost every day, and sometimes I see him."
"In this house—in this house!" exclaimed the artist, "to-morrow we will move—to-night, if another room can be got!"
As the old man spoke, a hesitating knock was heard at the door. Joseph and his father looked at each other wistfully; at length the boy stepped forward and turned the latch.
Mr. Farnham stood on the threshold. The artist drew his tall form up, and remained immovable, with his dark eyes fixed sternly on the Mayor's.
Joseph paused irresolute, with the last dying gold of sunset falling on his head, from a neighboring window.