"Ah--why. I cannot tell you. For one thing, I have pictured you as resembling another, more than my lost friend."
"You mean my mother."
Sir William looked at Arthur Bohun before replying. "Yes, I do. Will you take a seat: and some coffee?"
Arthur sat down, but it may be questioned whether he as much as heard that coffee was mentioned. Sir William rang the bell and ordered it to be brought in. Arthur leaned forward; his blue eyes solemnly earnest, his hand a little outstretched. Sir William almost started.
"How strangely like!" he exclaimed. "The look, the gesture, the voice, all are your father's over again. I could fancy that you were Thomas Bohun--as I last saw him in life."
"You knew him well--and my mother? You knew all about them?"
"Quite well. I knew you too when you were a little child."
"Then tell me one thing," said Arthur, his emotion increasing. "Was she my mother?"
The question surprised Sir William Adair. "She was certainly your mother, and your father's wife. Why do you ask it?"
"Because--she has so acted--that I--have many a time wished she was not. I have almost hoped it. I wish I could hope it now."