'I don't know. I didn't stay to hear. I tell you it was all one, after what he had thought of me. Will, I, that he took in—though that was your doing and your mother's, not his. I, that had grown up in his house and thought I was like his son. I wish he had turned me out of doors when your mother died. Maybe some day I may feel as grateful to him for his charity as I ought to be. I can't now.
'I did not mean to say aught of this to you, old chap,' he went on sadly. 'I ought not, only I can't help it. It wouldn't any of it have happened if you had been at home.'
'Then let me get you off,' I said eagerly. 'Let me do something for you.'
'Yes, that you shall, but not that. What a mercy it is that you have got home in time! It wasn't all this I wanted to tell you about. I was going to write you a letter, but talking is much handier.'
'And you must go?'
'Yes.' He took a shilling out of his pocket and held it up in the dim light with a half-laugh. 'Never mind that; it's done. Will, what I wanted to say to you besides good-bye was this.' His voice had grown grave enough now. 'I have something to leave in your charge.'
I don't know why my heart stopped beating for a second, and then went on again quicker than before.
'Do you know what it is?' Cuthbert continued. 'The greatest treasure I have—the only thing in all the world that really belongs to me.'
'What?' I asked.
And he answered, 'Hildred.'