“Servin’ his master,” said the woman, shortly, and with a glance at the now sleeping child, “an’ sometimes gettin’ big pay, an’ sometimes poor—what’s his business?” and she abruptly jerked a forefinger in the Judge’s direction.
“H-h-he’s a judge,” said the boy, proudly, “retired a few years ago—o-o-on account of ill health,” he added; “but he’s all right now.”
“Ah!” replied Mrs. Tingsby, and still staring at the Judge she addressed him significantly, “maybe you’ve seen him purfessionally.”
Judge Sancroft felt an inward recoil, though he said nothing. But he rose almost immediately, and looked at his grandson.
Mrs. Tingsby was a remarkably shrewd woman. Under the Judge’s reserved exterior she saw plainly that his heart had been going out to the orphan child.
“The father is dead,” she said, briefly, “buried by the mother—an’ she were a saint on earth, an’ is now a saint in heaven.”
The Judge said nothing, and picking up his fur gloves he slowly began to draw them on.
Mrs. Tingsby’s strained, eager face was bent on him. “The father of the imp were a minister of the gospel,” she continued, “an’ the imp’s wife—”
She paused an instant. The dead woman had told her clearly not to reveal her maiden name except to the person who would adopt her child; but Mrs. Tingsby was so sure that this person stood before her that she made up her mind to a slight breach of confidence.
“The mother were a Hittaker,” she said, grandly.