“Oh, mother, don’t be so irritating; I hate you to speak in that strain. Look here, you mustn’t pry into my secrets about the boy. If I choose to keep him here that’s my affair. You’re fond of a bit of money, aren’t you, and I can make it well worth your while to keep quiet and lie low, but the moment you guess what I want to keep hidden, the money stops. The child goes elsewhere, you understand?”
“To be sure, Clara,” said Mrs. Ives—the sparkle became very bright in her eyes as she spoke, and she screwed up her shrewd little mouth until it resembled a round O.
“I’ll be careful,” she cried.
“Well, then, that’s all right. And now please tell me exactly what you have guessed.”
“What I have guessed,” said the old woman coloring. “He ain’t your own child, I know that.”
“Of course not, mother: don’t run away with such a wild idea. But that’s not the thought in your mind.”
“No, it ain’t; but why should I tell it?”
“You must tell it—I insist.”
“You’ve got that masterful, you ain’t what you were. I don’t think riches have improved you, but if you want to know really what I do think, there’s somebody as wants to get rid of that child, and you are given money to hide him.”
“You’re wrong there,” said Clara. “I have not got a farthing for the boy. I’m keeping him away from danger, that’s what I’m doing.”