He made no reference as to his having wasted his substance; he talked not of sin, and he alluded in nowise to forgiveness, to being made as one of his father's hired servants, but took his place coolly enough once more in the house, and if no fatted calf was killed, and no rejoicings held, he was heartily welcomed and forgiven once again. He was his mother's favourite, and truly, in spite of all, there was forgiveness ready in the father's heart. As there was also for Frank, who after some years' silence had suddenly walked in at the rectory gates, rough-looking and boisterous, but not in such a condition as his brother, who had quite scandalised the men-servants, neatly clad in the liveries, of which a new supply had come from London, greatly to the disgust of Smithson in the market-place, who literally scowled at every seam. PART ONE, CHAPTER SIXTEEN. AT THE KING'S HEAD. "What I say is this," exclaimed Jabez Fullerton. "Justice is justice, and right is right." "Hear, hear!" murmured several voices, as Mr Fullerton glanced round the room, and drew himself up with the pride of a man who believed that he had said something original. "I hope I'm too good a Christian to oppose the parson," he continued, "and I wouldn't if it had been Mr Paulby, but it's time we stopped somewhere, gentlemen." "Hear, hear!" again; and several of the gentlemen addressed took their long pipes from their mouths to say it, and then, replacing them, continued to smoke. "Ever since parson has been back he has been meddling and interfering. First he kills poor old Sammy Warmoth. Broke his heart, he did. Then he makes Joe Biggins saxon, a man most unfitted for the post, gentlemen. I say a man most unfitted for the post." "Hear, hear!" "Chap as is always looking at you as if he wanted to measure you for a coffin," said Smithson, the tailor. "Natural enough," said the Churchwarden, chuckling; "you always look at our clothes, Smithson, eh?" "Ay, I do, Master Portlock, sir; but I don't want you to die for it. I want you to live and grow stout, and want new suits, not a last one." "Stiff, hard suit o' mourning, eh, Smithson, made o' wood?" "Yes, sir, well seasoned; ellum, eh?" There was a general laugh at this lugubrious joking, and Fullerton tapped impatiently with his pipe-bowl upon the table. "I say, gentlemen, a most unsuitable man," he continued. "Who would you have had then?" said Churchwarden Portlock. "Why Thomas Morrison, the wheelwright," said Fullerton, "if you must have a churchman." "Yes, a good man," was murmured in assent. "Then he must be pulling the church all to pieces, and quarrelling with the curate, and refusing to bury his dead. We wouldn't have refused to bury our dead at chapel, gentlemen." "Not you," chuckled Portlock. "You'd like to bury the lot of us, parson and all."