‘Must!’ said the old man, with unwonted fire; and then he fell again into the half-whimpering tone of complaint. ‘I have never had that said to me. I’ve been master in my own house, and no one to lift their hand against me, near upon fifty years.’ ‘Father, you will recognise, if you think, that I have a right to hear about the boy. You had settled to send him to an engineer? So much I know; but who is it, and where? It is far more easy to tell me than to quarrel with me about my right to ask.’ Mr. Sandford had already forgotten his moment of wrath, or perhaps the good sense of her argument had an effect upon him. ‘He has had all his schooling from the curate, Mr. Cattley. You saw him, Emily. Now, Mr. Cattley has a brother--in Liverpool.’ Her work fell from her lap. ‘In Liverpool--_in Liverpool_. I must be dreaming. You don’t mean that, father?’ ‘I remember now,’ said the old gentleman, ‘_she_ thought you would object. She objected herself, poor dear. But what does it matter, one place or another? It is the curate’s brother--a kind man that would look after him. He will be better there than anywhere. Mr. Cattley’s brother----’ ‘He shall not go there,’ she said; her pale face coloured over a little, very little, and yet enough to make a great difference. And she looked her father steadily in the face as she spoke. ‘Shall not! Is it you or me that is the master? She tried to persuade me, as a woman may, but you, you, with your “shall not,” your “shall not!” ...’ He rose up and began in his wrath to walk about the room, recovering something of his old force. ‘I have never allowed anyone to speak to me so.’ ‘Not since I left home, father. You must hear it again, for it is necessary you should. He shall not go there. No, if there was no other place for him in the world. There he shall not go.’ What further development the quarrel might have taken it is needless to speculate, for at this moment John, who had been turning aimlessly over a number of children’s books, which had been brought out of his grandfather’s room, here uttered a strange cry. What he said was, ‘Johnny May, Johnny May,’ with a mixture of trouble and satisfaction. ‘I knew that I had something to do with that name,’ he said. The discussion stopped at once. Mr. Sandford went back tremulous to his easy chair, and Emily turned to the boy. ‘With that name--with your own name,’ she said. ‘Is it my name?--but my name is Sandford.’ ‘May Sandford,’ she answered, fixing him with her steady eyes. ‘More than that, more than that,’ said John, ‘now I remember! Papa was Mr. May. I am Mr. May’s little boy. He taught me to say that. Now I remember everything. And my mother would be Mrs. May, not Mrs. Sandford. Now I know. You are not my mother. I felt sure of it from the first,’ said the boy.