‘I tell you he is no Morton at all—just the nurse-woman’s child, taken to spite you. I found it all out at—what’s its name?—Botzen; only ma would not be convinced.’
‘I should suppose not! To think that my
uncle and aunt would do such a thing—why, I don’t know whether it is not worse than stealing the child!’
‘Herbert! Herbert! do you want to bring your sister to jail, talking in that way?’
‘It is no more than you deserve. I would bring you there if it is the only way to get back the child! I do not know what is bad enough for you. My poor uncle and aunt! To have brought such misery on them!’ He clenched his hands as he spoke.
‘Everybody said she didn’t mind—didn’t ask questions, didn’t cry, didn’t go on a bit like his real mother.’
‘She could not, or it might have been the death of my uncle. Bertha wrote it all to me; but you—you would never understand. Ida, I can’t believe that you, my sister, could have done such an awfully wicked thing!’
‘I wouldn’t, only I was sure he was not—’
‘No more of that stuff!’ said Herbert. ‘You don’t know what they are.’
‘I do. So strict—not a bit like a mother.’