"It must be his son."
The good woman nodded. "Such likenesses cannot come by accident. It is a good thing that my poor dear mistress did not live to see this day—and she so jealous of him—it would have broken her heart."
"Aye, you may vell say that, Mrs. Paisley. And some men are cruel, deceitful, partic'lar them there frank sort of men, like the Kurnel. They are so pleasant like, that people never thinks they can be as bad as other volk. They have sich han hinnocent vay vith them. I vonder maister vos not ashamed of his old servants seeing him bring home a child so like himself."
"Well, my dear, and what is your name?" said Mrs. Paisley, addressing her wondering charge.
"Anthony Hurdlestone."
"Do you hear that, Mrs. Paisley?"
"Anthony Hurdlestone! Oh, shame, shame," said the good woman. "It would have been only decent, Mr. Glen, for the Colonel to have called him by some other name. Who's your father, my little man?"
"Squire Hurdlestone."
"Humph!" responded the interrogator. "And your mother?"
"She's in the churchyard."