"What!" cried the stranger.
"I know your name," repeated Lewis; "it is Leighton."
"How? How do you know?" The stranger was frowning.
"No," said Lewis, quietly; "I haven't been looking through your things. One day my—my foster-father and my foster-mother were talking. They did not know I was near. I didn't realize they were talking about me until mammy spoke up. Mammy is—well, you know, she's just a mammy——"
"Yes," said the stranger. "What did mammy say?"
"She said," continued Lewis, coloring slightly, "that a Leighton didn't have to have his name written in a family Bible because God never forgets to write it in his face."
"Good for mammy!" said the stranger. "So that's what they were talking about." For a moment he sat silent and thoughtful; then he said: "Boy, don't you worry about any family Bible business. Your name's written in the family Bible all right. Take it from me; I know. I'm Glendenning Leighton—your father." His eyes glistened.
"I'm glad about the name," said Lewis, his face alight. "I'm glad you're my dad, too. But I knew that."
"Knew it? How did you know it?"
"The old woman—Old Immortality. Don't you remember? She said, 'The son is the spit of the father.'"