“There’s never no music at Marget’s that she can hear.... Never a note from dawn to dusk, barring what the birds make in the eaves.” “Ay, well, we’d music to bed and board,” said his son. “An’ then, when we were grown lads, we danced to fiddle instead. Nobody could ever play up our feet like the old dad.” “Many a lad and lass it’s danced into love.” “Us among ’em—didn’t it, Agnes?—us an’ all! We’re married folk now,” Thomas added, “but I reckon we can dance a bit still.” Agnes finished the pot, and her eyes brightened with a new idea. “Get Father to give us a tune,” she said, “an’ we’ll show him what we can do, right off.” “It’s over soon, I doubt.” Thomas hesitated, taken aback. “Ay, well, why not?” he added, with a laugh. “’Tisn’t every day as’ll bring the old man home!” “Nay, it’s over soon, as you say.” Agnes affected to withdraw. “We’d best not worrit him. He’s tired.” “Nay, not I!” A sudden lightness and strength came into Kit’s voice, and his face brightened and he tried to smile. “I’ll be main glad,” he said, and straightened his back. All his fiddler’s pride was aroused by the implication that he was too tired to answer the call to his art. His hands went eagerly to the smooth pegs, as he started to tune. Life and meaning came back into his eyes.... “You’re bound to be a bit done, all the same. I reckon we’d best let the music be, to-night.” “I’m as fresh as a lemon, I tell ye!” the old man said. His tone was suddenly testy, almost sharp, and the young folk smiled at each other aside. “Ay, well, then, Thomas, shove the table back. We’ll show Father we’ve got a foot to us both yet....” Thomas went for the big table with zest, his heart light in him now as a sail at sea. As if by a miracle the whole atmosphere had cleared, transformed in a moment by a simple speech. Now it was sane and happy and almost gay, just as they had always expected it to be. He had been nearly troubled to tears by his father’s look—that hang-dog look, that look of a trapped beast. In the back kitchen he had questioned Agnes as to what they had done ... what they had left undone ... what was wrong. He couldn’t be homesick for Marget’s after all he had suffered at her hands, and yet even at Marget’s he had never looked like that. There were changes about the place, of course—and none too soon; he couldn’t have hoped to find it just the same. And yet all the time he seemed to be looking out—waiting for something ... seeking—what? “He’s strange—nowt else,” Agnes said in reply, hiding herself behind a cupboard door. “Strange? In his own spot?” “Ay.” “Land’s sake! Whatever for?”