“Oh, but I do trust you, father. Now tell me,” cried the boy eagerly, “what shall I do to help you?”
“Stay where you are patiently, and watch over and help your mother.”
“Is that all, father?” said the boy, in a disappointed tone of voice.
“All? Is it not enough to be trusted to keep my secret, the knowledge which means your father’s life, boy, and to have the guardianship of the truest and best woman who ever lived—your mother? And you ask ‘Is that all?’”
“Don’t be angry with me, father. I am very young and stupid. I will be as contented as I can; only it is so hard to know that you are in danger, and to be doing nothing to help you.”
“You will be doing a great deal to help me, for you will be giving me rest of mind—and I want it badly enough. There, now you had better go. You may be asked for, and you can’t make the excuse that you have been to see your father.”
“No,” sighed Frank. “But I shall see you again soon?”
“Perhaps. I may come here sometimes. An extra hole is useful to a hunted animal, Frank; but don’t question me, my boy, even if I seem mysterious. As your father, I can tell you nothing.”
Frank sighed and clung to his father’s arm.
“There, I’ll run one risk. You may come here sometimes. It will not look suspicious for you to visit your mother’s empty house.”