"But you're here," he said in a dazed kind of way. "You're well clothed. This cottage, though poor, shows a degree of comfort. You're not penniless, then? Have—have you married—again?"
The woman started back from him at these words, and lifted her hand as if to strike him.
"Douglas Graham," she said, "do not drive me too far!"
"But how have you been supported all these years? What have you done?"
"You know! You know!" she almost screamed.
"I know nothing," was his reply. "Where have you lived? Where do you live now? Is this your home, or are you only staying here temporarily?"
He seemed to be trying, in a confused sort of way, to understand how things stood. Evidently the shock of meeting her, after all the long years, had wellnigh unbalanced his mind.
"But don't you know? You must know! No; it may be that you don't," and the woman laughed like one in glee. "Then I will tell you," she said. "I am Paul Stepaside's mother, and Paul Stepaside is your son!"
The man gave a gasp as if for breath. His body swayed to and fro as though he found it difficult to stand upright. Then a hoarse cry escaped him:
"Paul Stepaside my son!"