With the wallet in his hand and the three young folk at his heels,
both their interest and their curiosity aroused, Mr. Cameron went
into the passage and so came to the open door of the bedroom. Mr.
Potter slept in a big, four-post bedstead, which was heaped high at
this time of year with an enormous feather bed. Rolled like a mummy
in the blankets, and laid on this bed, the feathers had plumped up
about the vagabond boy and almost buried him. But his eyes were wide
open--pale blue eyes, with light lashes and eyebrows, which gave his
thin, white countenance a particularly blank expression.

"Heigho, my lad!" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, in his jolly way. "So your
name is Jonas Hatfield, of Scarboro; is it?"

"No; sir; that was my father's name, sir," returned the boy in bed,
weakly. "My name is Fred."

And then a brilliant flush suddenly colored his pale face. He half
started up in bed, and the pale blue eyes flashed with an entirely
different expression. He demanded, in a hoarse, unnatural voice:

"How'd' you find me out?"

Mr. Cameron shook his head knowingly, and laughed.

"That was a bit of information you were keeping to yourself--eh?
Well, why did you carry your father's old wallet about with you, if
you did not wish to be identified? Come, son! what harm is there in
our knowing who you are?"

Fred Hatfield sank back in the feathers and weakly rolled his head