Mr. Devering stopped in his tracks, slid the lamb to a bed of moss, and said: "Let's rest a bit."
I knew he had paused to have a chat with the boy and ease his aching young heart. He was certainly a man who remembered that he had been a boy himself, and that the sorrows of youth are as painful as they are brief.
When they were seated quietly side by side on a log, while Lammie-noo reached out for some stray sickly blades of grass that were just begging him to eat them and put them out of their misery, Mr. Devering said quite decidedly: "My lad, I know your ancestry. If any real danger should threaten me, you would rush to my rescue."
Such a wave of relief swept over Dallas' face. "How do you know? Oh, how do you know?" he cried sharply.
"Because the Duffs and the Deverings have never bred a coward."
"The Duffs and the Deverings," repeated the boy slowly. "My father is a Duff, but was my mother a Devering?"
The big man bit his lip. "There! I have let that family cat out of the bag. That splendid man your Dad did not wish you to know till later, but I who hate mysteries about family affairs, am glad pussy jumped out."
"But my mother's name was not Devering," said Dallas.
"Yes it was, my boy. She was adopted in early life by our aunt Mrs. Beverly Ronald, who gave her her own name."
"And what relation are you to me?" asked Dallas springing to his feet.