The boy was got ready, and Hugh walked with him in his arms round the corner, to the Full Moon.  He had to pass by the bar, and the barmaid and the potboy looked at him very hard.  ’There’s a young ’ooman has to do with that ere little game,’ said the potboy ’And it’s two to one the young ‘ooman has the worst of it,’ said the barmaid.  ’They mostly does,’ said the potboy, not without some feeling of pride in the immunities of his sex.  ‘Here he is,’ said Hugh, as he entered the parlour.  ‘My boy, there’s papa.’  The child at this time was more than a year old, and could crawl about and use his own legs with the assistance of a finger to his little hand, and could utter a sound which the fond mother interpreted to mean papa; for with all her hot anger against her husband, the mother was above all things anxious that her child should be taught to love his father’s name.  She would talk of her separation from her husband as though it must be permanent; she would declare to her sister how impossible it was that they should ever again live together; she would repeat to herself over and over the tale of the injustice that had been done to her, assuring herself that it was out of the question that she should ever pardon the man; but yet, at the bottom of her heart, there was a hope that the quarrel should be healed before her boy would be old enough to understand the nature of quarrelling.  Trevelyan took the child on to his knee, and kissed him; but the poor little fellow, startled by his transference from one male set of arms to another, confused by the strangeness of the room, and by the absence of things familiar to his sight, burst out into loud tears.  He had stood the journey round the corner in Hugh’s arms manfully, and, though he had looked about him with very serious eyes, as he passed through the bar, he had borne that, and his carriage up the stairs; but when he was transferred to his father, whose air, as he took the boy, was melancholy and lugubrious in the extreme, the poor little fellow could endure no longer a mode of treatment so unusual, and, with a grimace which for a moment or two threatened the coming storm, burst out with an infantile howl.  ‘That’s how he has been taught,’ said Trevelyan.

‘Nonsense,’ said Stanbury.  ‘He’s not been taught at all.  It’s Nature.’

’Nature that he should be afraid of his own father!  He did not cry when he was with you.’

’No as it happened, he did not.  I played with him when I was at Nuncombe; but, of course, one can’t tell when a child will cry, and when it won’t.’

‘My darling, my dearest, my own son!’ said Trevelyan, caressing the child, and trying to comfort him; but the poor little fellow only cried the louder.  It was now nearly two months since he had seen his father, and, when age is counted by months only, almost everything may be forgotten in six weeks.  ‘I suppose you must take him back again,’ said Trevelyan, sadly.

‘Of course, I must take him back again.  Come along, Louey, my boy.’