“Who is his father, then?” he asked.
She bit her lip, feeling that she had betrayed herself.
“How should I know?” said she. “I meant only that neither you nor anyone else can be guardian to the child until you can prove that he’s an orphan. Is he an orphan?”
“I think not,” said Bayre, rather drily. And then he added, after a pause: “Would you like me to say what I think?”
A look of fear came into her great ox eyes. She grasped the rail of the cot firmly for a few moments, and then said, in a very dignified and touching manner, “I think, if you want to do your best for the child—and I’m sure that you do—you had better say as little as possible till you know more than you do.”
“Very well,” said he, gently.
There was a pause, and then she said, in a very low voice, “I’m glad you’ve come back. It was getting rather difficult for me. Those two friends of yours, good fellows, dear fellows, but—”
“Well?”
“They don’t know, and they don’t guess, and it makes things difficult.”
“Do you want them to guess?” asked Bayre.