"Mother," said Henry, respectfully, yet with an unwonted touch of sternness in his voice; "there is some mystery connected with this man Gascoyne that I feel convinced you can clear up—"
"Dear Henry," interrupted the widow, and her cheek grew pale as she spoke, "do not, I beseech you, press me on this subject. I cannot clear it up."
"Say you will not, mother," answered Henry, in a tone of disappointment.
"I would if I dared," continued the widow. "The time may come when I—"
"But why not now," urged the youth, hastily. "I am old enough, surely, to be trusted. During the four visits this man has paid to us, I have observed a degree of familiarity on his part which no man has a right to exhibit towards you; and which, did I not see that you permit it, no man would dare to show. Why do you allow him to call you 'Mary?' No one else in the settlement does so."
"He is a very old friend," replied the widow, sadly. "I have known him from childhood. We were playmates long ago."
"Humph, that's some sort of reason, no doubt; but you don't appear to like him, and his presence always seems to give you pain. Why do you suffer yourself to be annoyed by him? Only say the word, mother, and I'll kick him out of the house, neck and crop—"
"Hush, boy; you are too violent."
"Too violent! Why, it would make a coward violent to see his mother tormented as you are by this fellow, and not to be allowed to put a stop to it. I suspect—"
"Henry," said the widow, again interrupting her exasperated son, "do you think your mother would do what is wrong?"