At hearing that the deacon cast a swift look toward his wife, which she returned in kind. Neither of them could find utterance for a single word, however, such was the mental strain under which they labored.
"The last letter looks like a W," continued Hugh. "Yes, now that I've rubbed it with my finger I am positive of that. As for the middle one, I think it must be either an O or a C, though it's rather hard to say."
Deacon Winslow gave a deep sigh.
"And our boy's middle name was Carstairs, named after his mother's family!" he hastened to say.
Then they exchanged more wondering looks. It was very like a miracle, the bringing of the little child into the home of that couple whose fireside had so long awaited the coming of such a sunbeam.
Deacon Winslow turned almost fiercely on Hugh, and gripped his sleeve.
"You must tell us more about the boy," he said. "Who is he, and where did he come from? Those are vital things for us to learn. We could never know peace again if this mystery were not made clear. So tell us, Hugh, tell us as quickly as you can, so that we may learn the best, or the worst."
He saw that they were strangely shaken, and Hugh wisely believed it best to reassure them in the very beginning.
"First of all, sir," he started to say, "I begin to believe it may be what you would wish most of all. This boy who so much resembles your own child of the past is likely to turn out his son or perhaps grandson, for his mother's name is Walters, we've learned. You ask me where I found him, and I meant to tell you later on, never dreaming that it would interest you more than casually. I picked him and his mother up Thursday evening just at dusk, when I was coming home from a farm in a sleigh, where I had been to get a sack of potatoes. The young woman was trying to ask me something when she swooned away."
"Go on, lad, go on!" pleaded the deacon hoarsely, as Hugh paused for breath.