Jack suddenly interrupted himself on the edge of a revelation he would rather not make, to his mother nor any one else. For he has hitherto been as careful in keeping his own secret as that of his patron.
“As who?” she asks, looking him straight in the face, and with an expression in her eyes of no common interest—that of maternal solicitude.
“Who?—well—” he answers confusedly; “I wor goin’ to mention the name o’ a girl who the people ’bout here think the best-lookin’ o’ any in the neighbourhood—”
“An’ nobody more’n yourself, my son. You needn’t gi’e her name. I know it.”
“Oh, mother! what d’ye mean?” he stammers out, with eyes on the but half-eaten beefsteak. “I take it they’ve been tellin’ ye some stories ’bout me.”
“No, they han’t. Nobody’s sayed a word about ye relatin’ to that. I’ve seed it for myself, long since, though you’ve tried hide it. I’m not goin’ to blame ye eyther, for I believe she be a tidy proper girl. But she’s far aboon you, my son; and ye maun mind how you behave yourself. If the young lady be anythin’ like’s good-lookin’ as Mary Morgan—”
“Yes, mother! that’s the strangest thing o’ all—”
He interrupts her, speaking excitedly; again interrupting himself.
“What’s strangest?” she inquires with a look of wonderment.
“Never mind, mother! I’ll tell you all about it some other time. I can’t now; you see it’s nigh nine o’ the clock.”