Here Tom, the youngest-born before described, put his mouth to his mother’s ear, and whispered loud enough to be heard by all: “He runs arter the coach ‘cause he thinks his ma may be in it. Who’s home-sick, I should like to know? Ba! Baa!”
The boy pointed his finger over his mother’s shoulder, and the other children burst into a loud giggle.
“Leave the room, all of you,—leave the room!” said Mr. Morton, rising angrily and stamping his foot.
The children, who were in great awe of their father, huddled and hustled each other to the door; but Tom, who went last, bold in his mother’s favour, popped his head through the doorway, and cried, “Good-bye, little home-sick!”
A sudden slap in the face from his father changed his chuckle into a very different kind of music, and a loud indignant sob was heard without for some moments after the door was closed.
“If that’s the way you behave to your children, Mr. Morton, I vow you sha’n’t have any more if I can help it. Don’t come near me—don’t touch me!” and Mrs. Morton assumed the resentful air of offended beauty.
“Pshaw!” growled the spouse, and he reseated himself and resumed his pipe. There was a dead silence. Sidney crouched near his uncle, looking very pale. Mrs. Morton, who was knitting, knitted away with the excited energy of nervous irritation.
“Ring the bell, Sidney,” said Mr. Morton. The boy obeyed—the parlour-maid entered. “Take Master Sidney to his room; keep the boys away from him, and give him a large slice of bread and jam, Martha.”
“Jam, indeed!—treacle,” said Mrs. Morton.
“Jam, Martha,” repeated the uncle, authoritatively. “Treacle!” reiterated the aunt.