Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn's face and fly to his
heart. He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost.

"Who are you? What is your name?" imperiously demanded Philip's wife.

"It is Walter Hamlyn," replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones.

And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn's turn to look white. Walter Hamlyn?--the
name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, or
John Jones! What insolence some people had!

"Where do you come from, boy? Who sent you here?" she reiterated.

"I come from mamma. She would have sent me before, but I caught cold,
and was in bed all last week."

Mr. Hamlyn rose. It was a momentous predicament, but he must do the best
he could in it. He was a man of nice honour, and he wished with all his
heart that the earth would open and engulf him. "Eliza, my love, allow
me to deal with this matter," he said, his voice taking a low, tender,
considerate tone. "I will question the boy in another room. Some
mistake, I reckon."

"No, Philip, you must put your questions before me," she said, resolute
in her anger. "What is it you are fearing? Better tell me all, however
disreputable it may be."

"I dare not tell you," he gasped; "it is not--I fear--the disreputable
thing you may be fancying."