"Confusion! and you never told me you had ever heard of me before? This
explains the manner in which you seemed to study me at times on the
steamer," reproachfully.

"Just so. I had reasons for my silence; _she_ was one of them," jerking
his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the parlor above, whence
the voice of the amiable Gwendolin Makepeace floats to their ears.

"In haste, then, let me tell you a secret, John. I was not always what
you see me, a docile, hen-pecked man. Twenty-five years ago Philander
Sharpe, young, good-looking, conceited, and rich, had the world before
him."

"Cut it short, I beg, professor," groans John, impatient to be off.

"I fell in love; my affection was returned; we were engaged; a friend in
whose honor I fully believed stole her heart away from me, but all these
years I have never forgotten--never. John Craig, the girl I loved and
who was to have been my wife was--your mother."

The little man folds his arms and throws his head back in a peculiar way
he has. How strangely full of dignity these undersized people can be at
times.

"Is it possible, and you never breathed a word of all this to me before?"

"Ah! my dear boy, the time was not ripe. I said nothing but sawed wood."

"Why do you speak now?"