‘Black!’ said John.
‘Yes—black enough.’
‘Whose?’
‘Why, Matilda’s.’
‘O, Matilda’s!’
‘Whose did you think then?’
Instead of replying, the trumpet-major’s face became as red as sunset, and he turned to the window to hide his confusion.
Bob was silent, and then he, too, looked into the court. At length he arose, walked to his brother, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. ‘Jack,’ he said, in an altered voice, ‘you are a good fellow. Now I see it all.’
‘O no—that’s nothing,’ said John hastily.
‘You’ve been pretending that you care for this woman that I mightn’t blame myself for heaving you out from the other—which is what I’ve done without knowing it.’