Now as Mrs. Breakspear sat in the silence and solemnity of the deepening twilight she became subject to a feeling the like of which she had never before experienced. A vague awe, a presentiment of coming ill, stole over her; and, yielding to its influence, she resolved, before it should be too late, to carry out a purpose she had long had in mind.
"Idie," she said, closing the casement and moving to the fireplace, "come and sit here. I have something to tell you."
Wondering much at her grave manner the little fellow obeyed.
"Idie," she began, "you have been taught to believe that your father died when you were an infant. I have told you this, thinking it right that you should know nothing of his sad history. But, sooner or later, you are sure to hear it from others: told, too, in a way that I would not have you believe. Therefore it is better that you should hear the story from me: and remember to take these words of mine for your guidance in all future years: and if men should speak ill of your father, do not believe them: for who should know him better than I, his wife?"
She paused for a moment: and Idris, new to this sort of language, made no reply.
"Idie, your father is not dead."
Idris' eyes became big with wonder.
"Then why doesn't he live with us?" he asked.
"Because," replied his mother, sinking her voice to a whisper, "because he is in prison."