For the cottage adjoining the wheelwright's workshop and forge, where Edward Williams had been brought up, was now inhabited by his father and sister. The sister, Jenny, was an old friend of Polly Mason's, who had indeed many young memories of the scholastic himself. They had been all children or schoolmates together. And this afternoon, while she was in the parlour with Jenny, all of a sudden--voices and clamour in the forge outside! The son, the outcast son, had quietly presented himself to his father. "Oh, an sic a to-do! His fadther wadna let him ben. 'Naa,' he says, 'if thoo's got owt to say, thoo may say it i' th' shop. Jenny doan't want tha!' An Jenny luked oot--an I just saw Teddy turn an speak to her--beggin her like, a bit masterfu too, aw t' time--and she flounced back again--'Keep yor distance, will yer!' an slammed to the door--an fell agen it, cryin. An sic a shoutin an hollerin frae the owd man! He made a gradely noise, he did--bit never a word fra Teddy--not as yo cud hear, I'll uphowd yo! An at lasst--when Jenny an I opened t' door again--juist a cranny like--theer he was, takin hissel off--his fadther screamin afther him--an he wi his Papish coat, an his head hangin as thoo there wor a load o' peät on it--an his hands crossed--soa pious! Aye, theer he goes!--an he may goa!" cried Polly, her face flaming as it followed the Jesuit out of sight. "When a mon's treated his aan mother that gate, it's weary wark undoin it. Aye, soa 'tis, Mr. Teddy--soa 'tis!" And she raised her voice vindictively. Laura's lips curled. "Do you think he cares--one rap? It was his duty to go and see his father--so he went. And now he's all the more certain he's on the road to heaven--because his father abused him, and his sister turned him out. He's going to be a priest directly--and a missionary after that--and a holy martyr, too, if he gets his deserts. There's always fever, or natives, handy. What do earth-worms like mothers and sisters matter to him?" Polly stared. Even she, as she looked, as she heard, felt that a gulf opened--that a sick soul spoke. "Oh! an I'd clean forgot," she faltered--"as he must be stayin at Bannisdale--as yo wad be seein him." "I see so many of them," said Laura wearily. She took up her bag, that had been leaning against the stile. "Now, good-bye!" Suddenly Polly's eyes brimmed with tears. She flung an arm round the slim childish creature. "Laura, whatever did you do it for? I doan't believe as yo're a bit happy i' yor mind! Coom away!--we'se luke after you--we're your aan kith an kin!" Laura paused in Polly's arm. Then she turned her wild face--the eyes half closed, the pale lips passionately smiling. "I'll come, Polly, when I'm dead--or my heart's dead--not before!" And, wrenching herself away, she ran down the path. Polly, with her clutch of Brahma eggs in her hand, that she was taking to the Bannisdale Bridge Farm, leant against the stile and cried. CHAPTER IV