In came Japhet at this juncture. "There's a little boy in the hall, sir,
asking to see you," said he to his master. "He--"
"Oh, we shall have plenty of boys here to-day, asking for a new year's
gift," interposed Mrs. Hamlyn, rather impatiently. "Send him a shilling,
Philip."
"It's not a poor boy, ma'am," answered Japhet, "but a little gentleman:
six or seven years old, he looks. He says he particularly wants to see
master."
Philip Hamlyn smiled. "Particularly wants a shilling, I expect. Send him
in, Japhet."
The lad came in. A well-dressed beautiful boy, refined in looks and
demeanour, bearing in his face a strange likeness to Mr. Hamlyn. He
looked about timidly.
Eliza, struck with the resemblance, gazed at him. Her husband spoke.
"What do you want with me, my lad?"
"If you please, sir, are you Mr. Hamlyn?" asked the child, going forward
with hesitating steps. "Are you my papa?"
Every drop of blood seemed to leave Philip Hamlyn's face and fly to his
heart. He could not speak, and looked white as a ghost.
"Who are you? What is your name?" imperiously demanded Philip's wife.
"It is Walter Hamlyn," replied the lad, in clear, pretty tones.
And now it was Mrs. Hamlyn's turn to look white. Walter Hamlyn?--the
name of her own dear son! when she had expected him to say Sam Smith, or
John Jones! What insolence some people had!
"Where do you come from, boy? Who sent you here?" she reiterated.
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