"I know—nothing about what interests me most at present—yourself, Pippo, and what has happened to you."
John had always made a great stand against that particular name, but several times had used it of late, not knowing why.
"I don't know what you thought of me last night," said the boy, "I was so miserable. May I tell you everything, Uncle John?"
What balm that question was! He clasped Pippo's hand in his own, but scarcely could answer to bid him go on.
"It was unnecessary, all she wanted to tell me. I fought it off all the morning. I was there yesterday in the court and heard it all."
"In the court! At the trial?"
"I had no meaning in it," said Philip. "I went by chance, as people say, because the Marshalls had not turned up. I got Simmons to get me into the court. I had always wanted to see a trial. And there I saw my mother stand up—my mother, that I never could bear the wind to blow on, standing up there alone with all these people staring at her to be tried—for her life."
"Don't be a fool, Philip," said John Tatham, dropping his hand; "tried! she was only a witness. And she was not alone. I was there to take care of her."
"I saw you—but what was that? She was alone all the same; and for me, it was she who was on her trial. What did I know about any other? I heard it, every word."
"Poor boy!"