“How old art thou, my lad?” said he to Will.
Will made no answer, and his sister spoke up for him.
“Please, sir, he’s six.”
“And what dost thou believe?” asked the Commissioner, half scornfully, half amused.
“Please, we believe what Father told us.”
“Who is their father?” was asked of the gaoler.
“Johnson, worshipful Sirs: Alegar, of Thorpe, that you have sentenced this morrow.”
“Gramercy!” said Sir John. “Take them down, Wastborowe,—take them down, and carry them away. Have them up another day. Such babes!”
Cissy heard him, and felt insulted, as a young woman of her age naturally would.
“Please, Sir, I’m not a baby! Baby’s a baby, but Will’s six, and I’m going in ten. And we are going to be as good as we can, and mind all Father said to us.”