"Who are you?"
This seemed a singular question. What could his name matter to a burglar? However, Bert answered mechanically, "My name is Bert Barton."
"The widow Barton's boy?"
"Yes; how do you know that?" demanded Bert, in bewilderment.
"Don't you know me?" was the unexpected rejoinder.
He drew nearer to the bed, and Bert gazed at him earnestly, but no light dawned upon him.
"No, I don't know you," he said, shaking his head.
"I am Silas Wilson's son," said the stranger.
"Phineas Wilson?"
Now Bert remembered that eight years before, the farmer's son, a man grown, had left Lakeville, and, so far as he knew, had not been heard of since. He had contracted a habit of drinking and had tired of farm work. Moreover, when he left, he had taken fifty dollars of his father's money with him, which had led to bitter feelings on the part of the farmer, who appeared to mourn the loss of his money more than that of his son. And this was the young man who had crept into his father's house like a thief in the night.