The boy stared at her. “How ever did you know that?”
“What!” she exclaimed, “you don’t mean to tell me you are going to Randlebury?”
“I am, though.”
“Well, I never,” cried the good old soul, “who would have believed it! Think of your going to the same school as my Tom.”
“Is Tom your boy’s name?”
“Yes.”
“Is he a nice boy?”
Such a question to ask any one’s mother!
The old lady burst into tears instead of answering—a proceeding which greatly alarmed and disconcerted my master.
“Don’t cry,” he said excitedly. “Look here! I didn’t mean—oh, don’t! Look here, shall I tell you the time? It’s—it’s sixteen minutes to four—I didn’t mean, you know. Of course he’s a nice boy—oh, don’t cry!”