§ 3.

That morning Reuben had a sleep after breakfast, and did not come down till dinner-time. He was told that Mrs. Realf wanted to see him and had been waiting in the parlour since ten. He smiled grimly, then settled his mouth into a straight line.

He found his daughter in a chair by the window. Her face was puffed and blotched with tears, and her legs would hardly support her when she stood up. She had brought her youngest son with her, a fine sturdy little fellow of fourteen. When Reuben came into the room she gave the boy a glance, and, as at a preconcerted signal, they both fell on their knees.

"Git up!" cried Backfield, colouring with annoyance.

"We've come," sobbed Tilly, "we've come to beg you to be merciful."

"I wöan't listen to you while you're lik that."

The son sprang to his feet, and helped his mother, whose stoutness and stiffness made it a difficult matter, to rise too.

"If you've come to ask me to kip you and your husband on at Grandturzel," said Reuben, "you might have säaved yourself the trouble, fur I'm shut of you both after last night."

"Fäather, it wur an accident."

"A purty accident—wud them stacks no more dry than a ditch. 'Twas a clear case of 'bustion—fireman said so to me; as wicked and tedious a bit o' wark as ever I met in my life."

"It'll never happen agäun."

"No—it wöan't."

"Oh, fäather—döan't be so hard on us. The Lord knows wot'll become of us if you turn us out now. It 'ud have been better if we'd gone five years ago—Realf wur a more valiant man then nor wot he is now. He'll never be able to start agäun—he äun't fit fur it."

"Then he äun't fit to work on my land. I äun't a charity house. I can't afford to kip a man wud no backbone and no wits. I've bin too kind as it is—I shud have got shut of him afore he burnt my pläace to cinders."

"But wot's to become of us?"

"That's no consarn of mine—äun't you säaved anything?"

"How cud we, fäather?"

"I could have säaved two pound a month on Realf's wage."

Tilly had a spurt of anger.

"Yes—you'd have gone short of everything and made other folks go short—but we äun't that kind."

"You äun't. That's why I'm turning you away."

Her tears welled up afresh.

"Oh, fäather, I'm sorry I spöake lik that. Döan't be angry wud me fur saying wot I did. I'll own as we might have managed better—only döan't send us away—fur this liddle chap's sake," and she pulled forward young Sidney, who was crying too.

"Where are your other sons?"

"Harry's got a wife and children to keep—he cudn't help us; and Johnnie's never mäade more'n fifteen shilling a week since the war."

Reuben stood silent for a moment, staring at the boy.

"Does Realf know you've come here?" he asked at length.

"Yes," said Tilly in a low voice.

There was another silence. Then suddenly Reuben went to the door and opened it.

"There's no use you waiting and vrothering me—my mind's mäade up."

"Fäather, fur pity's säake——"

"Döan't talk nonsense. How can I sit here and see my land messed about by a fool, jest because he happens to have married my darter?—and agäunst my wish, too. I'm sorry fur you, Tilly, but you're still young enough to work. I'm eighty-five, and I äun't stopped working yet, so döan't go saying you're too old. Your gals can go out to service ... and this liddle chap here ..."

He stopped speaking, and stared at the lad, chin in hand.

"He can work too, I suppose?" said Tilly bitterly.

"I wur going to say as how I've täaken a liking to him. He looks a valiant liddle feller, and if you'll hand him over to me and have no more part nor lot in him, I'll see as he doesn't want."

Tilly gasped.

"I've left this farm to William," continued Reuben, "because I've naun else to leave it to that I can see. All my children have forsook me; but maybe this boy 'ud be better than they."

"You mean that if we let you adopt Sidney, you'll mäake Odiam his when you're gone?"

"I döan't say for sartain—if he turns out a präaper lad and is a comfort to me and loves this pläace as none of my own children have ever loved it——"

But Tilly interrupted him. Putting her arm round the terrified boy's shoulders, she led him through the door.

"Thanks, fäather, but if you offered to give us to-day every penny you've got, I'd let you have no child of mine. Maybe we'll be poor and miserable and have to work hard, but he wöan't be one-half so wretched wud us as he'd be wud you. D'you think I disremember my own childhood and the way you mäade us suffer? You're an old man, but you're hearty—you might live to a hundred—and I'd justabout die of sorrow if I thought any child of mine wur living wud you and being mäade as miserable as you mäade us. I'd rather see my boy dead than at Odiam."