"I did not expect you," she said, while Silwood embraced her affectionately. "Is anything the matter?"
The woman who put the question was a plump, personable woman of about forty, with kindly brown eyes and a tender mouth. She loved but was rather afraid of this man, who yet was always good and kind to her. But he had told her very little about himself. She knew he was engaged in some mysterious business which necessitated long absences from her, and the wearing of a disguise; she had tried to guess the nature of his business, and had come to the conclusion that it was some kind of secret police work.
Any romance there was in Silwood's life was connected with this woman, of whom he was sincerely fond, though he was still fonder of their child. Some years before, an accident one evening in the street led to his meeting her, and he took a fancy to her. The thing jumping well with other things he followed her up and married her, though he was careful not to let her know who he was.
When with her and the child Silwood was another man; he seemed to have shed like a skin the cold formality which characterized him in Lincoln's Inn; his very nature appeared changed.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
"No, Meg, though there's news. But how is Davy?"
"Poor lamb! He's as usual. He's asleep just now."
"Let me see him," said Silwood.
They went into a bedroom, and in a cot was their child. The boy was a cripple—he had been born a cripple, and the parents were all the more attached to him on that account. There is no explaining the workings of human nature; Silwood, who had confessed himself a criminal to his partner, Eversleigh, was deeply attached to the boy. He now gazed at the sleeping child, and the love that shone in his eyes was as pure as an angel's.
"Poor lad! dear lad!" he said, and there were tears in his voice.