He declined his mother's invitation to supper with such meekness that the little woman found it difficult to hide her concern.

Could she have peeped into the drive of the Mount of Gold, where was scrap-food enough to victual a small regiment, not to mention pillage from Wilson's orchard, she might have been more at her ease--or have found fresh occasion for uneasiness.

Dick had none of his mother's apple-like roundness--the widow, who was not yet thirty-five, always suggested apples and roses--he had inherited his father's flame-coloured hair, and a pale complexion that was very effective in turning away maternal wrath when allied with an appearance of pensive melancholy and a fictitious pain in the chest.
The conversation, which had been interrupted by Dick's entrance, was presently resumed.

The women were recounting the story of Frank Hardy's arrest and trial for Harry's information.

The subject was one of profound interest to Dick, and from his retreat at the far end of the table, where he sat disregarded, his crimes tacitly ignored for the time being, he listened eagerly.