'Those two can never be my boys, Tom!' he repeated, in the same incredulous, awestruck voice.
'Ay, lad, they are your own, surely; and you had better be thanking God for His mercy in giving you such sons than be taking the holy name on your lips.'
But Mat did not seem to hear this mild rebuke.
'Will you shake hands with your father, Cyril?' he said, with an air of deep dejection. 'I wish it were a cleaner hand, for your sake; but I can give you no other.'
'Do you think I would refuse it, sir?' returned the young man, touched, in spite of himself.
And then it was Kester's turn. But as Mat's eyes fell on the boy's worn, sickly face his manner changed.
'Is that my little chap—the young monkey who used to ride on my shoulder and hold on by my hair? Dear! dear! who would have believed it?'
Kester's pale face flushed a little.
'You are looking at my crutch, sir,' he said nervously; 'but I shall soon throw it away. I am ever so much better now, am I not, Cyril?'
'And where's my little Mollie?' continued Mat—'"the baby," as we used to call her?'