“Who? Mrs Cyril Mallow?”
“Yes, my boy,” said the old man, clinging to him. “Mrs Cyril, she—she asked me to come and see you.”
“Sage—Mrs Mallow did?” cried Luke, sharply.
“You promised me, my boy, that you would not be cross with me,” quavered the old man.
“No, no, father, I am not cross, but you startled me by your words. Did she tell you to come to me?”
“Yes, my boy, she—she’s sadly altered, Luke, and so sweet and so humble. She wanted to go down on her knees to me, my boy, but I wouldn’t let her.”
“Tell me all, father,” cried Luke. “Why are you keeping this back?”
“I—I daren’t tell you, my boy, at first; I dare not, indeed.”
“Tell me now, quickly.”
“She told me to come to you, my boy; she said she had heard what a great counsel you had become.”