He sat up, and stared at me, bewildered.
“I had forgotten all about John!” he said.
“As to what you think I did, I know nothing about it. I haven't been out of this room since I saw—that spectre in the kitchen.”
“John's mother, you mean, uncle?”
“Ah! she's John's mother, is she? Yes, I thought as much—and it was more than my poor brain could stand! It was too terrible!—My little one, this is death to you and me!”
My heart sank within me. One thought only went through my head—that, come what might, I would no more give up John, than if I were already married to him in the church.
“But why—what is it, uncle?” I said, hardly able to get the words out.
“I will tell you another time,” he answered, and rising, went to the door.
“John is going to London,” I said, following him.
“Is he?” he returned listlessly.