The Witch’s Head #566731

“ Come here, boy, let me look at you.” Ernest advanced a step or two and looked his uncle in the face. He was a noble-looking lad of about thirteen, with large dark eyes, black hair that curled over his head, and the unmistakable air of breeding that marks Englishmen of good race. His uncle let his wandering glance stray round him, but, wandering as it was, it seemed to take him in from top to toe. Presently he spoke again: “ I like you, boy.” Ernest said nothing. “ Let me see—your second name is Beyton. I am glad they called you Beyton; it was your grandmother’s maiden name, and a good old name too. Ernest Beyton Kershaw. By the way, have you ever seen anything of your other uncle, Sir Hugh Kershaw?” The boy’s cheek flushed. “ No, I have not; and I never wish to,” he answered. “ Why not?” “ Because when my mother wrote to him before she died”—and here the lad’s voice choked—“just after the bank broke and she lost all her money, he wrote back and said that because his brother—I mean my father—had made a low marriage, that was no reason why he should support his child and widow; but he sent her five pounds to go on with. She sent it back.”