He felt ashamed of himself again when he saw the disappointment in Agnes’s face, but she did not try to force him into eating the ham against his will. She did not even say that folks were hard to suit, as Marget most certainly would have said. “Have a bit o’ butter wi’ your bread,” she coaxed instead, pushing the shining pat within his reach, and he felt comforted for a moment, and forgot that he had seen Marget sitting in her place. He made a determined effort to receive an impression of light and space, of comfort and kindliness and the atmosphere of home. He said to himself peace where there was no peace, and not for one moment did he succeed. Agnes was busy talking about Marget again, and he pushed the butter away and drifted back.... Nothing had happened to rescue him from prison, after all, and he was in danger of losing his home of vision as well.... “We’ll have a trap, one o’ these days,” Agnes was saying, “and ride round by Bob’s. Marget’ll be madder than ever when she sees Father getting that perked up and fat!” “He shall play fiddle all down t’road,” Thomas grinned, “an’ Marget’ll just have to bide and let him be!” They looked at each other across the table and laughed, and Thomas leaned back in his chair and chuckled and slapped his knee. They were so busy with the picture in their minds that they forgot to notice anything else. “Eh, well, never mind her, poor crabt body!” he finished at last. He took up his knife and fork with a smile still lingering on his face, and felt his father’s aloofness in the silence like a chill current in a quiet stream. The fork half-raised in the air came to a halt.... “Butter not right, neither, eh, old dad?” “It’s grand butter, but I doubt it’s not like it used. Your mother was t’best butter-maker in t’country-side.” “You must learn me different next time I churn,” Agnes told him with a good-tempered smile. “Likely I’ll shape to do better after a bit.”