Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as yet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. “Never you mind, Master Robin,” she said, nodding sagaciously. “Little boys aren’t to know everything.”
“Ah, then, I know you don’t know,” replied Robert; “if you did, you’d tell. Nicholas, give some of your bread to Darkie and Pax. I’ve done mine. For what we have received the Lord make us truly thankful. Say your grace and put your chair away, and come along. I want to hold a court-martial.” And seizing his own chair by the seat, Robin carried it swiftly to its corner. As he passed Sarah he observed tauntingly, “You pretend to know, but you don’t.”
“I do,” said Sarah.
“You don’t,” said Robin.
“Your ma’s forbid you to contradict, Master Robin,” said Sarah; “and if you do, I shall tell her. I know well enough who the old gentleman is, and perhaps I might tell you, only you’d go straight off and tell again.”
“No, no, I wouldn’t!” shouted Robin. “I can keep a secret, indeed I can! Pinch my little finger, and try. Do, do tell me, Sarah, there’s a dear Sarah, and then I shall know you know.” And he danced round her, catching at her skirts.
To keep a secret was beyond Sarah’s powers.
“Do let my dress be, Master Robin,” she said, “you’re ripping out all the gathers, and listen while I whisper. As sure as you’re a living boy, that gentleman’s your own grandpapa.”
Robin lost his hold on Sarah’s dress; his arms fell by his side, and he stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking. Then he said, emphatically, “What lies you do tell, Sarah!”
“Oh, Robin!” cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls standing stark with curiosity, “mamma said ‘lies’ wasn’t a proper word, and you promised not to say it again.”