"Certainly."
Mattia translated it as well as he could. It appeared that I was born on Thursday, August the 2nd, and that I was the son of John Driscoll and Margaret Grange, his wife.
What further proofs could I ask?
"That's all very fine," said Mattia that night, when we were in our caravan, "but how comes it that peddlers were rich enough to give their children lace bonnets and embroidered pelisses? Peddlers are not so rich as that!"
"It is because they were peddlers that they could get those things cheaper."
Mattia whistled, but he shook his head, then again he whispered: "You're not that Driscoll's baby, but you're the baby that Driscoll stole!"
I was about to reply but he had already climbed up into his bed.