Some minutes later the boy was taken out of his bed by his aunt Dorothy, who dressed him by the dark window-light, crying bitterly, while she said, ‘Hush, hush!’ and fastened on his small garments between tender huggings of his body and kissings of his cheeks.  He was told that he had nothing to be afraid of.  A gentleman wanted to see him:  nothing more.  Whether the gentleman was a good gentleman, and not a robber, he could not learn but his aunt Dorothy, having wrapped him warm in shawl and comforter, and tremblingly tied his hat-strings under his chin, assured him, with convulsive caresses, that it would soon be over, and he would soon be lying again snug and happy in his dear little bed.  She handed him to Sewis on the stairs, keeping his fingers for an instant to kiss them:  after which, old Sewis, the lord of the pantry, where all sweet things were stored, deposited him on the floor of the hall, and he found himself facing the man of the night.  It appeared to him that the stranger was of enormous size, like the giants of fairy books:  for as he stood a little out of the doorway there was a peep of night sky and trees behind him, and the trees looked very much smaller, and hardly any sky was to be seen except over his shoulders.

The squire seized one of the boy’s hands to present him and retain him at the same time:  but the stranger plucked him from his grandfather’s hold, and swinging him high, exclaimed, ’Here he is!  This is Harry Richmond.  He has grown a grenadier.’

‘Kiss the little chap and back to bed with him,’ growled the squire.

The boy was heartily kissed and asked if he had forgotten his papa.  He replied that he had no papa:  he had a mama and a grandpapa.  The stranger gave a deep groan.

‘You see what you have done; you have cut me off from my own,’ he said terribly to the squire; but tried immediately to soothe the urchin with nursery talk and the pats on the shoulder which encourage a little boy to grow fast and tall.  ‘Four years of separation,’ he resumed, ’and my son taught to think that he has no father.  By heavens! it is infamous, it is a curst piece of inhumanity.  Mr. Beltham, if I do not see my wife, I carry off my son.’

’You may ask till you’re hoarse, you shall never see her in this house while I am here to command,’ said the squire.

’Very well; then Harry Richmond changes homes.  I take him.  The affair is concluded.’

‘You take him from his mother?’ the squire sang out.

’You swear to me she has lost her wits; she cannot suffer.  I can.  I shall not expect from you, Mr. Beltham, the minutest particle of comprehension of a father’s feelings.  You are earthy; you are an animal.’

The squire saw that he was about to lift the boy, and said, ’Stop, never mind that.  Stop, look at the case.  You can call again to-morrow, and you can see me and talk it over.’

‘Shall I see my wife?’

‘No, you shan’t.’