"Not yet, dear. There has not been time. It will of course be something of a shock to her, and I want to tell her when we are quiet and alone and I can prepare her for it."
For a moment the boy stood silent, his head bent forward on his breast. Then he burst out impetuously:
"Do you think we'd better tell her at all, Mother? She is contented and happy here, why should we tell her something that—that—might take her away from us forever? I have always known that she was—was—different, somehow, and this box probably contains the information about her own people and all that. If she gets it why—why she will probably go back to them—and—and——"
The troubled voice ceased, and his mother bent forward and putting her hand under his chin raised his face to hers.
"Why, Joe!" she exclaimed, "why, Joe! Is that my own boy speaking like this? You would keep the knowledge that must be of such inestimable value to Nina away from her because, perchance, we should lose her, lest she should leave us—to further her own happiness and prosperity in life?"
Joe bent his head and his face crimsoned.
"I know I'm selfish, Mother," he blurted out; "I know I shouldn't even allow myself to think of such a thing. But when I think of her leaving us—of—of going off to live with some one else—I—I just can't stand it." Then raising his head and fixing his deep grey eyes upon his mother's face, "I'd rather die than live without Nina."
When she had at last sent him away to bed Hannah Peniman sat for a long time before the dying fire.
Joe—her Joe—her son—her baby—was not a boy any more—he was a man!
The eyes that had looked into hers this night, the voice that had spoken out of a heart yet unknown to itself, were not the eyes, the voice of a child. And the knowledge left pain in her heart, and wonder.