The security in the laugh tempted Thomas into further speech. There could be no harm now in telling her the other things that Bob had said. “Ay, but hark ye,” he added, “what d’ye think o’ this? Bob had it the old man mightn’t settle, after all. ‘I’ll be at Low Moss End for an hour or two,’ he said, ‘and if he doesn’t feel like stopping, I’ll take him back.’” “Not settle, did you say?” Agnes stared at him open-mouthed. “Ay.” “Take him back?” “Yon’s what he said.” “Well, did you ever hear the likes o’ that!” This time the laugh was on a harder note.... “What’s wrong, Father?” she added, kindly again, seeing the old man gazing at his cup. “I doubt you’ve given me the wrong mug, my lass. Mine was a sort o’ blue chiney, wi’ a pink rose.” “Yon went at sale an’ all,” Thomas explained, “but I got as near a match as they had in t’shop.” Kit said the mug was grand and would do right well, but a little colour came in his face, and he felt ashamed as he had done in the field. They must be thinking he was going daft, losing his senses because of his great age. He kept waiting and waiting for the things that were in his dream, and didn’t seem able to grasp the things that were under his nose. He winced when Thomas talked of “getting a match,” because you couldn’t match the furniture of a dream. Even if the mug had managed to look the same, he would have known when he touched it that it wasn’t his. Still, the thing to remember was that Thomas had done his best. “Tea’ll sup right enough out of it, I’ll be bound,” he said. “Yon as Marget give me was every bit cracked....” “Old folks should have the best of what’s going,” Agnes said. She knew the best was on the table to-night, but he did not seem to be making much of a meal. Perhaps excitement had taken his appetite away, or more probably he was over-tired with the slow drive. Now and then he looked again at the alien “mug,” but she never saw him lift it to his lips. Old folks always wanted a little tempting to their food, but she had been so certain he would be suited to-night. A vague sense of disappointment touched her mind, in spite of the fact that it was still busy with Bob’s words. “I never hear such a thing as that about Bob!” she said again. “Surely to goodness Father’s had enough o’ his spot!” “Ay, well, if he’s set on waiting, I reckon nobody’ll say him nay. He’ll nobbut be throwing away his time an’ that’ll be all.” “It’s Marget’s nastiness—that’s what it is!” Agnes frowned. “She knows he’s glad to be shot of her, and she’s by way of having a slap.”