"I could do it. I could, first rate. I've got money. It's in the savings bank. 'Supe' put it in for me."
"I couldn't think of it, not for a second. Mr. Wingate—is it?"
"Archibald Wingate, and your kinsman, young sir."
"So I heard my mother say. She would wish you to come to the house with me, and we'll try to make you comfortable. I must go—I am wild to know what is wrong with my father."
"We will, at once," answered the other, coldly. "Your father was always weak—was never very rugged, and he hasn't lived in a way to make himself more robust. A man's place is in the open; not penned like a woman behind closed doors and windows."
"Beg pardon, but you are speaking of my father."
"Exactly, and of my cousin. Oh, I've known him since we sat together under our grandmother's table, munching gingerbread cakes. Ah, she was a famous cook, else the flavor of a bit of dough wouldn't last that long."
"I've heard of my great-grandmother's talent for cookery. Father and mother often speak of it, and some of her old recipes are in use in our kitchen to-day."
Mr. Wingate had kept an even pace with Hallam's eager swings upon his crutches, and they were speedily at the old house door, with a kindly feeling toward one another springing into life within the heart of each; though but a little while before Hallam had exclaimed to Amy, in all sincerity, "I hate him unseen."
With the ready trustfulness of youth, Hallam began to think his mother's and the lawyer's words had not meant literally what they expressed.