“Was it you that sent me that message?” he said. “Is it true?”
Lydia’s emotion fled in a moment at this matter-of-fact address. She drew her arm out of Mr. Bonamy’s, trembling no longer.
“It is true,” she said; “they have advertised and done everything to find you.”
“I know—I know. I saw that; but they never said why. And they would like to take it from me! Will and Tom—and their father.”
“For shame!” she said; “not father. He is the one that stands out—with mother, and Joan, and me.”
He had been quite steady and business-like, almost stern, up to this moment; now he suddenly fell a-laughing in the strangest way.
“What a united family!” he said, “Mother—and Joan—and you. Who are you? Little Liddy, the little girl at school, that poor mother always thought—but, poor soul! she thought that of me too.”
Lydia’s excitement was almost uncontrollable; but she was a North-country girl, and she kept herself down a moment longer.
“Joan always says still,” she said, “that there was a great deal of mother in you.”
And then he burst forth into a half shriek of laughter and sobs.