“And would you like to do so now, on your own account?” was the next question. The pale, pinched-up features of the youth crimsoned all over, and his dark, deep-set eyes were illumined as if by magic.
“Be your messenger, sir?—indeed I would.”
“Who could answer for your character?”
“My mother, sir; she knows me best,” he replied with great simplicity.
“But who knows her?” said the bookseller, smiling.
“Not many, sir; but the landlady where we live, and some few others.”
The bookseller inquired what place of worship they attended.
The lad told him, but added, “My mother has not been there lately.”
“Why not?”
The deep flash returned, but the expression of the face told of pain, not pleasure.