Wolf tried to catch his sister’s eye for permission to disobey the sick man, but the girl seemed to have forgotten his existence. It was clear to him that Mr. Smith had had some kind of stroke. His face wore now an unnatural reddish tint, and his head kept drooping sideways, as if the muscles of his neck no longer responded to his will.

Suddenly he astonished them by calling out “Lorna! Lorna!” in a loud voice.

“Oh, he’s dying!” sobbed Mattie. “That’s Mother he wants. It’s your Mattie. It’s your dear Mattie,” she repeated, bending over him. But Mr. Smith had begun mumbling now, incoherently, but not inarticulately.

“Home⁠ ⁠… home for bastards.⁠ ⁠…” Wolf was sure those were the words he used; and he was relieved that Mattie, fallen on her knees again now, was sobbing so violently as to make it unlikely that she could catch what he said.