‘Clerivault once told me you had a sister—but she died. Was she not called so?’
‘What if she were?’
‘I meant no harm. But, O, Uncle, I am sick to know! I found her name in the little Book of Hours: Jane Middleton Bagott, it was writ; and—and my name is Brion Middleton.’
He leaned forward passionately, a sobbing flutter in his throat. ‘Uncle!’ he cried again.
And over his own clenched hand the other bowed his head, lower, lower, and, holding it so, sank down into the chair from which he had risen. At that the boy ran and flung himself on his knees before him, pleading in a desperate voice:—
‘What have I said! I never thought to hurt you so.’
The hand unclasped itself to an impatient gesture.
‘Let out! You would know—what?’
The beat was going fast in the boy’s throat. He struggled with himself to control it, but it yielded to an irresistible cry:—
‘If she was my mother.’