“O dear Mr Walton, I am SO sorry! But you’re not very ill, are you?”
“I hope not, Miss Jemima. Indeed, I begin to think this morning that I am going to get off easier than I expected.”
“I am glad of that. Now listen to me. I won’t keep you, and it is a matter of some importance. I hear that one of your people is dead, a young woman of the name of Weir, who has left a little boy behind her. Now, I have been wanting for a long time to adopt a child——”
“But,” I interrupted her, “What would Miss Hester say?”
“My sister is not so very dreadful as perhaps you think her, Mr Walton; and besides, when I do want my own way very particularly, which is not often, for there are not so many things that it’s worth while insisting upon—but when I DO want my own way, I always have it. I then stand upon my right of—what do you call it?—primo—primogeniture—that’s it! Well, I think I know something of this child’s father. I am sorry to say I don’t know much good of him, and that’s the worse for the boy. Still——”
“The boy is an uncommonly sweet and lovable child, whoever was his father,” I interposed.
“I am very glad to hear it. I am the more determined to adopt him. What friends has he?”
“He has a grandfather, and an uncle and aunt, and will have a godfather—that’s me—in a few days, I hope.”
“I am very glad to hear it. There will be no opposition on the part of the relatives, I presume?”
“I am not so sure of that. I fear I shall object for one, Miss Jemima.”