“Yes, as if nothing had happened. Do all you can to assist Crampton.”
“Yes, father.”
“He was very quiet and reserved when I went in at seven; quite snappish, I might say. But he was too much occupied and troubled, I suppose, to be very courteous to such an old idler as I am. Ah!” he continued, as a figure passed the window, “here’s Uncle Luke.”
A cold chill had run through Harry at the mention of Crampton—a chill of horror lest he should suspect anything; and now, at the announcement of his uncle’s approach, he felt a flush run up to his temples, and as if the room had suddenly become hot.
“Morning,” said Uncle Luke, entering without ceremony, a rush basket in one hand, his strapped-together rod in the other. “Breakfast? Late for breakfast, isn’t it?”
“No, Luke, no; our usual time,” said his brother mildly.
“You will sit down and have some, uncle?”
“No, Louie, no,” he replied, nodding his head and looking a little less hard at her. “I’ve had some bread and skim milk, and I’m just off to catch my dinner. The idiot know?”
“My dear Luke!” said his brother mildly, as Uncle Luke made a gesture upward towards Aunt Marguerite’s room; “why will you strive to increase the breach between you and our sister?”
“Well, she tells every one that I’m mad. Why shouldn’t I call her an idiot? But nice goings on, these. Wonder you’re all alive.”