'
'Glad to see you, Mr. Williamson,' said the landlady, scrutinising
him with unmistakable suspicion.
The pair ascended the stairs, and Mrs. Williamson--she had always
used the name she received in marriage--opened a door which
disclosed a dark bedroom. A voice came from within--the voice of a
little lad of eight years old.
'That you, mother? Why, I've only just put myself to bed. What time
is it?'
'Then you ought to have gone to bed long ago,' replied his mother
whilst she was striking a light.
It was a very small room, but decent. The boy was discovered sitting
up in bed--a bright-faced little fellow with black hair. Clara
closed the door, then turned and looked at her husband. The light
made a glistening appearance on her eyes; she had become silent,
allowing facts to speak for themselves.
The child stared at the stranger in astonishment.
'Who are you?' he asked at length.
Rodman laughed as heartily as if there had been nothing disagreeable
in the situation.
'I have the honour to be your father, sir,' he replied. 'You're a
fine boy, Jack--a deuced fine boy.'
The child was speechless. Rodman turned to the mother. Her hands
held the rail at the foot of the bed, and as the boy looked up at
her for explanation she let her face fall upon them and sobbed.
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