“I—I don’t know, Stephen; she said she must go.”
“Tell me, mother—I beg, I insist,” he exclaimed, “what you are keeping from me.”
“Nothing, nothing, Stephen,” sobbed the poor woman. “You’ll kill me with your un kindness before you’ve done.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you do not know where Linny has gone, mother?”
“Yes, yes, Stephen; I do not know.”
“Has—has she gone to meet anyone?”
“I don’t know, Stephen; I think so.”
“Who is it, mother?” exclaimed Hallett.
“I don’t know, Stephen; indeed I don’t know. Oh, this is very, very cruel of you!”
“Mother,” said Hallett, “is this just and kind to me, to keep such a secret from my knowledge? Oh, shame, shame! You let that weak, foolish child keep appointments with a stranger, and without my knowledge—without my knowing it, who stand to her in the place of a father. It must be stopped at once.”