He turned his head away from her, and stared out of the window at the lights in the cottages which skirted the common--lights which twinkled at him many a time afterwards in his dreams. ‘Boy,’ she said, suddenly grasping his arm with her hand, ‘you don’t know what you say.’ ‘That is no fault of mine,’ said John. He would not yield even so much as to turn his head to her. It was, indeed, all he could do to keep himself from shaking off the hand on his arm. She took it away after a moment, and then resumed: ‘This is the last time I shall have the chance of saying anything to you. John, you’ve set your heart against me without any cause.’ ‘Isn’t it cause enough that you’re taking both father and mother from me,’ cried the boy. ‘Isn’t that enough? But no, I’m saying too much, for you’ve given me back my mother, my faith in a mother. I had always been thinking you were my mother--till now.’ She gave a little, low cry as if some one had struck her, and paused for some time to recover herself, putting her hand up to her throat as if she were suffocating. He never looked round nor moved, but, with his heart on flame, kept his shoulder towards her, looking out fixedly into the darkness of the night. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘well, if you feel so: I--I have nothing to say if you feel so. One thing I would ask of your honourable feeling, John. If it has been thought best by everyone, my mother included, not to enter into our family circumstances at your early age, I ask you to respect our decision. We know better than you. We must know better than you. Don’t try to surprise your poor old grandfather, in his loneliness, into saying--what he will regret. Don’t try----’ ‘I’ll do nothing dishonourable, I hope,’ cried the boy, ‘but I’ll make no promises. I’ll find out, if I can. I’ll do all I can to find out---- ’ ‘And when you have done so,’ she said, with an audible quiver in her voice, ‘what will you discover? Nothing that is of any consequence to you or anyone--only that we wanted you, all of us, to respect and reverence your family until you were old enough to understand how things come about. That is all. And it was my mother’s wish as well as----’ ‘Don’t say that,’ exclaimed John. ‘She died saying, “Tell him--tell him----”’ ‘This is madness,’ she said, with a start, as if she would have sprung out of the carriage: then recovering herself. ‘Like every young and heated imagination you make mountains out of molehills,’ she said, in a very slow and measured voice. ‘A mere matter of family expediency, and you turn it into some dreadful secret. This shows how little you are to be treated with confidence. What a child you are still!’ He turned round upon her with all the fierceness of boyish wrath. ‘If it isn’t a dreadful secret, what is it? You’ve taken my father and my mother from me, both, both.’ She gave a little, quivering cry. ‘And what am I, then?’ she said.