“They,” said Mr. Wade, mechanically, “came up and left my nephew.”
Then the consciousness of who this man was, and what Hastings had done, awoke in him a sense of pride of blood which restored him in voice and bearing to some semblance of himself.
“My nephew,” he repeated, with a touch of arrogance, “who refused to save himself and leave your son and your workman.” He straightened himself up with a dignity whose assumed calm hardly covered its pathos.
“As he would, naturally,” he finished.
John Carrington’s eyes softened.
“I thought he was that kind,” he said. “I like him.”
Mr. Wade’s heart warmed to a man who appreciated his nephew.
“Then my son would have done the same thing for him, in his place,” John Carrington added, proudly.
Young Carrington was a splendid young fellow, Mr. Wade thought. His sympathy swept out to his father.
“I’m sure of it,” he said. And the two men’s hands met.