William found that there was a lump in his own throat, and turned away toward the window, with an obscure feeling that he should give them a moment’s privacy.

“It was Manoke who told me,” Cinnamon said, his voice husky, too. “That it was you, I mean.”

“He told you … well, yes, now that I recall, he was there in Quebec when I took you to the mission—after your mother died, I mean. You saw Manoke—recently?” Lord John’s voice held an odd note, and William glanced back at him. “Where?”

“At Mount Josiah,” William answered, turning round. “I … er … went there. And found Mr. Cinnamon visiting Manoke. He—Manoke, I mean—said to give you his regards, and tell you to come fishing with him again.”

A very odd look flickered in Lord John’s eyes, but then was gone as he focused anew on John Cinnamon. William could see that the Indian was still nervous, but no longer panic-stricken.

“It’s kind of you to—to receive me, sir,” he said, with an awkward nod toward Lord John. “I wanted to—I mean, I don’t want to—to impose upon you, or—or cause any trouble. I would never do that.”

“Oh—of course,” Lord John said, puzzlement clear in his voice and face.

“I don’t expect acknowledgment,” Cinnamon continued bravely. “Or anything else. I don’t ask anything. I just—I just … had to see you.” His voice broke suddenly on the last words and he turned hastily away. William saw tears trembling on his lashes.

“Acknowledgment.” Lord John was staring at John Cinnamon, his face gone quite blank, and suddenly William couldn’t bear it anymore.

“As your son,” he said roughly. “Take him; he’s better than the one you have.” And reaching the door in two strides, he yanked it open and went out, leaving it ajar behind him.

WILLIAM WALKED PURPOSEFULLY to the gate, and stopped. He wanted to be gone, go away and leave Lord John and his son to make what accommodations they might. The less he knew of their conversation, the better. But he hesitated, hand on the latch.

He couldn’t bring himself to abandon Cinnamon, not knowing what the outcome of that conversation might be. If things went awry … he had a vision of Cinnamon, rejected and distraught, blundering out of the house and away, God knew where, alone.

“Don’t be a fool,” he muttered to himself. “You know Papa wouldn’t …” “Papa” stuck like a thorn in his throat and he swallowed.

Still, he took his hand off the latch and turned back. He’d wait for a quarter of an hour, he decided. If anything terrible was going to happen, it would likely be quick. He couldn’t linger in the tiny front garden, though, let alone skulk about beneath the windows. He skirted the yard and went down the side of the house, toward the back.