‘But I suppose he had a father and mother,’ said Ellen.
‘No,’ said Harold.
‘No!’ Ellen and Alfred cried out together.
‘Not as ever he heard tell of,’ said Harold composedly, as if this were quite natural and common.
‘And you could go and be raking with him like born brothers there!’ said Ellen, in horror.
‘D’ye think I’d care for stuff like that?’ said Harold. ‘Why, he sings—he sings better than Jack Lyte! He’s learnt to sing, you know. And he’s such a comical fellow! he said Mr. Shepherd was like a big pig on his hind legs; and when Mrs. Shepherd came out to count the scraps after we had done, what does he do but whisper to me to know how long our withered cyder apples had come to life!’
Such talents for amusing others evidently far out-weighed in Harold’s consideration such trifling points as fathers, mothers, and respectability. Alfred laughed; but Ellen thought it no laughing matter, and reproved Harold for being wicked enough to hear his betters made game of.
‘My betters!’ said Harold—‘an old skinflint like Farmer Shepherd’s old woman?’
‘Hush, Harold! I’ll tell Mother of you, that I will!’ cried Ellen.
‘Do then,’ said Harold, who knew his sister would do no such thing. She had made the threat too often, and then not kept her word.