"Your father,—Paul Martel," and I deemed him crazy.
"My poor Rachel!" he groaned. "We must hide it. She must not know. She must never know. My God! Why did I blab it out?"
"Uncle George!" I said soothingly, and laid my hand on his shoulder, for I made sure his wound had upset his brain.
"Give me time, Phil. I am not crazy. Give me time. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" and he sat down heavily with his head in his hands.
And we, not understanding anything of the matter, but still much startled at the strangeness of his words and bearing, nevertheless found the size of our hunger at sight of the basket he had brought, and fell to on its contents, and ate ravenously.
CHAPTER XXXV
HOW WE HEARD STRANGE NEWS
"Whatever is it all, Phil?" whispered Carette as we ate.