I want to ask you a favour, Mrs. Denbigh."
"A favour!" exclaimed Ruth; "what can I do for you? I think I may
say I will do it, without hearing what it is."
"Then you're a very imprudent woman," replied he; "however, I'll
take you at your word. I want you to give me your boy."
"Leonard?"
"Ay! there it is, you see, Mr. Benson. One minute she is as ready
as can be, and the next she looks at me as if I was an ogre!"
"Perhaps we don't understand what you mean," said Mr. Benson.
"The thing is this. You know I've no children; and I can't say
I've ever fretted over it much; but my wife has; and whether it
is that she has infected me, or that I grieve over my good
practice going to a stranger, when I ought to have had a son to
take it after me, I don't know; but, of late, I've got to look
with covetous eyes on all healthy boys, and at last I've settled
down my wishes on this Leonard of yours, Mrs. Denbigh."
Ruth could not speak; for, even yet, she did not understand what
he meant. He went on--
"Now, how old is the lad?" He asked Ruth, but Miss Benson
replied--
"He'll be twelve next February."
"Umph! only twelve! He's tall and old-looking for his age. You
look young enough, it is true." He said this last sentence as if
to himself, but seeing Ruth crimson up, ho abruptly changed his
tone.
"Twelve, is he? Well, I take him from now. I don't mean that I
really take him away from you," said he, softening all at once,
and becoming grave and considerate.
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