"No," she answered thoughtfully. "He said it wasn't right of him, and that he had often wished himself back again there;—but I don't believe father ever did what was wrong."
"Hum!" Mr. Smith suddenly looked away towards the fire and cleared his throat violently; as he did so, his eyes rested on little Maurice, who was sitting on his little stool in the chimney-corner, with the firelight falling on his face. The old man started and muttered low, "Alan, my little lad!" Then gave an impatient pshaw! and turned again to Ellen.
"The river ran right through the fields, and my brother used to bathe in it, and fish—ay, many's the hour we've spent on its banks with a rod and basket—many's the dish we've brought back in pride to our mother."
Suddenly Maurice got up and came to his side. "Did you ever see a boy drowned?"
Mr. Smith looked at the child in silent amazement for a moment, but Maurice repeated his question.
"Did you?"
"Yes," answered the old man in a tremulous voice, while his hands shook as he clasped them together.
"Uncle Val was drowned," Maurice went on, "quite drowned in the water—father said so—he was drowned deep down under the willow-trees."
"Hush, Maury dear; it was very dreadful: father used to sigh when he spoke of Uncle Val, and Maurice is always thinking about him; please, forgive him, sir."
Mr. Smith did not answer, and at this moment the mother came in.