'I can do no more than tell you that Joseph James Snowdon was my
younger son,' replied the old man simply. 'I've come back to spend
my last years in England, and I hoped--I hope still--to find my
son. I wish to take his child into my own care; as he left her to
strangers--perhaps he didn't do it willingly; he may be dead--he
could have nothing to say against me giving her the care of a
parent. You've been at expense--'
Mrs. Peckover waited with eagerness, but the sentence remained
incomplete. Again the old man's eyes strayed about the room. The
current of his thoughts seemed to change, and he said:
'You could show me those letters you spoke of--of my son's
writing?'
'Of course I could,' was the reply, in the tone of coarse resentment
whereby the scheming vulgar are wont to testify to their dishonesty.
'Afterwards--afterwards. I should like to see Jane, if you'll be
so good.'
The mild voice, though often diffident, now and then fell upon a
note of quiet authority which suited well with the speaker's grave,
pure countenance. As he spoke thus, Mrs. Peckover rose, and said she
would first go upstairs just to see how things were.
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