'Well, that's a good enough guess, young fellow

Dick fell back quietly. It was, he felt, a moment when an air of sadness
and a retiring disposition would be likely to be most becoming in
him--and most effective. He declined his mother's invitation to supper
with such meekness that the little woman found it difficult to hide her
concern. Could she have peeped into the drive of the Mount of Gold, where
was scrap-food enough to victual a small regiment, not to mention pillage
from Wilson's orchard, she might have been more at her ease--or have
found fresh occasion for uneasiness. Dick had none of his mother's
apple-like roundness--the widow, who was not yet thirty-five, always
suggested apples and roses--he had inherited his father's flame-coloured
hair, and a pale complexion that was very effective in turning away
maternal wrath when allied with an appearance of pensive melancholy and a
fictitious pain in the chest.

The conversation, which had been interrupted by Dick's entrance, was
presently resumed. The women were recounting the story of Frank Hardy's
arrest and trial for Harry's information. The subject was one of profound
interest to Dick, and from his retreat at the far end of the table, where
he sat disregarded, his crimes tacitly ignored for the time being, he
listened eagerly. When Gable kicked him to attract his attention, and
gleefully exhibited a handful of loaf sugar that he had slyly abstracted
from the basin, the small boy frowned the old man down with a diabolical
scowl.

Gable was Mrs. Hardy's brother, and although over sixty years of age, his
mind had remained the mind of a child; mentally, he never grew beyond his
eighth year. He was a child in all his ways and wishes, was happiest in
the society of children, and was regarded by them, without question and