"I don't know, Aunt Pen."
"Yes, so I am informed; a half-pay officer's widow. Well, well, some people have luck, to be sure. How does your father appear to take to the child—Jack, I think you said he was called?"
"Oh, I think he likes him very well and Jack seems to be awfully fond of father."
"Indeed! Do not let your nose be put out of joint, Theodore. Not that it can make any real difference to you, of course: you are the heir, any way; no one can alter that."
Theodore regarded his aunt gravely in puzzled silence. Her eyes fell beneath his steady gaze, and she hastily bade him continue his work. He was not sorry when the clock at last struck twelve, and Miss Penelope dismissed him, with a caution to be in good time on the morrow.
On his way home he met Tom Blake, the blacksmith's son, a tall, over-grown boy of twelve.
"Why, how is it you are not at school?" Theodore inquired, pausing to exchange a few words with Tom, on whom he looked with deep admiration, as a being much older and wiser than himself, and therefore to be regarded with due reverence.
Tom explained that he had taken a holiday to go birds'-nesting, but that in spite of the mildness of the spring, the birds, as it turned out, had known better than to build so early.
"I guess the old man will wollop me," Tom grinned, alluding to his father; "but I don't care, not I."
Theodore looked at the daring youth with admiring eyes, considering him very brave; then he poured into Tom's ears all he knew about Jack.