“Look here, Mater,” he continued, “don’t you believe that if our father were alive he’d take Jim home this very minute? Wouldn’t he have him here with us, and treat him just the same?”
Mrs. Morland sat speechless.
“I think he would,” said Austin soberly; “I truly do. And,” he continued, a delicate instinct prompting him, “I can’t tell why you don’t; only, of course, I don’t know about all the things you know of. I’m just settling about myself. I saw Jim going away, looking down, and I meant to ask you to send someone to fetch him back.”
“Austin!”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Mrs. Morland indignantly, “I will not hear of such a thing. Do you suppose I will have all Woodend sneering at my blacksmith-stepson?”
The boy kicked a stool vehemently.
“Well, I won’t ask what isn’t any good. But I’d like to go after him myself, and say—something. And I think I’ll go.”
“Austin! you—”
“I think I’ll just go.”