But here the stranger gave a cry of denial which rung through the room. “Bad ways! my boy!” said the mother. “Mr. Brownlow, you know a great deal more than I do, but you don’t know my son. He taken to bad ways! I would sooner believe I was wicked myself. I am wicked, to come and complain of him to them that don’t know.” “Then what in the name of goodness is it?” said the lawyer, startled out of his seriousness. He began to lose the tragic sense of a dangerous presence. It might be the woman he feared; but it was a homely, incoherent, inconsequent personage all the same. Mrs. Powys drew herself up solemnly. She too was less respectful of the man who did not understand. “What it is, sir,” she said slowly, and with a certain pomp, “is, that my boy has something on his mind.” Something on his mind! John Brownlow sunk again into a strange fever of suspense and curiosity and unreasonable panic. Could it be so? Could the youth have found out something, and be sifting it to get at the truth? The room seemed to take life and become a conscious spectator, looking at him, to see how he would act in this emergency. But yet he persevered in the course he had decided on, not giving in to his own feelings. “What can he have on his mind?” he asked. His pretended ignorance sounded in his own ears like a lie; but nevertheless he went on all the same. “That’s what I don’t know, sir,” said Mrs. Powys, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. “He’s been rummaging among my papers, and he’s may be found something, or he’s heard some talk that has put things in his head. I know he has heard things in this very house--people talking about families, and wills, and all that. His father was of a very good family, Mr. Brownlow. I don’t know them, but I know they’re rich people. May be it’s that, or perhaps--but I don’t know how to account for it. It’s something that is eating into his heart. And he has such a confidence in you! It was you that took him up when we were strangers, and had nobody to look to us. I have a little that my poor husband left me; but it’s very little to keep four upon; and I may say it’s you that gave us bread, for that matter. There’s nothing in this world my boy wouldn’t do for you.” Then there was a pause. The poor woman had exhausted her words and her self-command and her breath, and stopped perforce, and Mr. Brownlow did not know how to reply. What could he say to her? It was a matter of death and life between him and her boy, instead of the indifferent question she thought. “Would you like me to speak to him?” he said at last, with a little difficulty of utterance; “should I ask him what is occupying his mind? But he might not choose to tell me. What would you wish me to do?” “Oh, sir, you’re very good,” said Mrs. Powys, melting into gratitude. “I never can thank God enough that my poor boy has met with such a kind friend.”