"Well, Joseph," said Mrs Portlock, who had nearly arrived at the stage of dressing that calls for a cap, "that was only fair." "Oh, yes, it was fair enough; and I wouldn't have grudged it if Cyril had been like other men. Five thousand pounds hard savings I paid down that he might go into partnership with old Walker in that wine trade." "Well, and I'm sure they seem to have done well for some time, Joseph; and see what a nice present of wine Cyril sent you every Christmas. Yes, for five Christmas presents, Joseph." "Every one of which cost me a thousand pounds, old lady, and the interest. Dear presents--dear presents." "But he was getting on well, Joseph, and he seemed so steady; and I'm sure he was very fond of Sage." "Fond of Sage!" cried the old farmer, bitterly. "Don't tell me. How can a man be fond of his wife when he spends every penny he can get on himself, and then turns the woman he swore to protect into a begging-letter writer?" "But what does it all mean? Only the other day, dear," said Mrs Portlock, whose hands trembled, and who seemed sadly agitated, "we heard that old Mr Walker had died, and I thought it meant that now Cyril would have the business all to himself." "Yes, and he has had it all to himself," said the Churchwarden, bitterly. "But come down, and speak gently to her, poor darling. Let's do all we can to make the best of things." The Churchwarden had let the angry excitement escape in the presence of his wife, and there was a notable change in his manner as he softly followed her down into the old parlour, where a bonny fire was blazing, and Sage Mallow had changed her position to the easy-chair, so that her little ones might enjoy the comfort of the broad old sofa, drawn, as it was, before the glow. They were fast asleep, the two pretty little girls, with their tangled hair, in a close embrace, and warmly covered with a great rug, while their mother lay back in the chair, looking twenty years older than on the day she accompanied Cyril Mallow to the church. Her face was pinched and pale, and about her lips there was that strange compression that tells of suffering, weariness, and an aching heart. A sigh broke involuntarily from the Churchwarden's breast, as with tender solicitude he went down on one knee, and drew a shawl over the sleeping mother's arms. It was softly done, but Sage started into wakefulness, and then, seeing who was there, her dilate and frightened eyes softened with tears as she threw her arms round his neck, and hid her face in his breast, sobbing hysterically, but in a low, weary way. "Oh, uncle, uncle!" "My poor bairn, my dear bairn," he whispered, drawing her closer to his breast, and softly caressing her hair. "There, there, there, don't cry, don't cry. As long as there's a roof at Kilby, and we're alive, there's a home for you, my darling, and the little ones. So come, come, come, cheer up!"