“That you shall, my sweetest; and everything that’s good,” assented his mother.
In came Japhet at this juncture. “There’s a little boy in the hall, sir, asking to see you,” said he to his master. “He——”
“Oh, we shall have plenty of boys here to-day, asking for a new year’s gift,” interposed Mrs. Hamlyn, rather impatiently. “Send him a shilling, Philip.”
“It’s not a poor boy, ma’am,” answered Japhet, “but a little gentleman: six or seven years old, he looks. He says he particularly wants to see master.”
Philip Hamlyn smiled. “Particularly wants a shilling, I expect. Send him in, Japhet.”
The lad came in. A well-dressed beautiful boy, refined in looks and demeanour, bearing in his face a strange likeness to Mr. Hamlyn. He looked about timidly.
Eliza, struck with the resemblance, gazed at him. Her husband spoke. “What do you want with me, my lad?”
“If you please, sir, are you Mr. Hamlyn?” asked the child, going forward with hesitating steps. “Are you my papa?”
Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn’s face and fly to his heart. He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost.
“Who are you? What is your name?” imperiously demanded Philip’s wife.