Still silence.
She walked over to the table where the boy sat before the untouched supper that had been saved for him, and dropped upon one knee beside him. She placed her arm around him and drew him against her gentle bosom—he suffering her, though not returning the caress.
"Tell me, Eddie, darling—tell Mother," she coaxed.
The grey eyes softened, the brow lifted. "There's nothing to tell, Mother," he gently replied.
Mr. Allan rose from his chair. "I'll give you five minutes in which to find something to tell," he exclaimed, shaking a trembling finger at the culprit; then stalked out of the room.
In his absence his wife fell upon the neck of the pale, frowning child, covering his face and his curly head with kisses, and beseeching him with honeyed endearments, to be a good boy and obey his father. But the little figure seemed to have turned to stone in her arms. In less than the five minutes Mr. Allan was back in the room, trimming a long switch cut from one of the trees in the garden as he came.
"Are you ready to tell me the truth?" he demanded.
No answer.
Still trimming the switch, he approached the boy. Frances Allan trembled. Rising from the child's side, she clasped her husband's arm in both her hands.
"Don't, John! Don't, please, John dear. I can't stand it," she breathed. He put her aside, firmly.