“It is Walter Hamlyn,” replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones.
And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn’s turn to look white. Walter Hamlyn?—the name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, or John Jones! What insolence some people had!
“Where do you come from, boy? Who sent you here?” she reiterated.
“I come from mamma. She would have sent me before, but I caught cold, and was in bed all last week.”
Mr. Hamlyn rose. It was a momentous predicament, but he must do the best he could in it. He was a man of nice honour, and he wished with all his heart that the earth would open and engulf him. “Eliza, my love, allow me to deal with this matter,” he said, his voice taking a low, tender, considerate tone. “I will question the boy in another room. Some mistake, I reckon.”
“No, Philip, you must put your questions before me,” she said, resolute in her anger. “What is it you are fearing? Better tell me all, however disreputable it may be.”
“I dare not tell you,” he gasped; “it is not—I fear—the disreputable thing you may be fancying.”
“Not dare! By what right do you call this gentleman ‘papa’?” she passionately demanded of the child.
“Mamma told me to. She would never let me come home to him before because of not wishing to part from me.”