“My father!” he cried, in strange perplexity. “Mamma never told me I had a father. Where does he live? I’d rather stay with uncle.”
“He lives a little distance from the Grange,” I replied; “just beyond those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get hearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try to love him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you.”
“But why have I not heard of him before?” asked Linton. “Why didn’t mamma and he live together, as other people do?”
“He had business to keep him in the north,” I answered, “and your mother’s health required her to reside in the south.”
“And why didn’t mamma speak to me about him?” persevered the child. “She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I to love papa? I don’t know him.”
“Oh, all children love their parents,” I said. “Your mother, perhaps, thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is much preferable to an hour’s more sleep.”
“Is she to go with us,” he demanded, “the little girl I saw yesterday?”
“Not now,” replied I.
“Is uncle?” he continued.
“No, I shall be your companion there,” I said.