THE RETURN OF THE FATHER AND THE LAST OF THE RANTAN YES, there he sat, there could be no doubt about it--he sat in his wooden chair upon one side of the hearth, a wan, blear-eyed, crouching, shivering specimen, too visibly in a condition of tipsiness. Annie had been used to her father in every stage of drink, and could see at once at what phase he had arrived, a state of virtue and moral indignation, ready to be maudlin at the first opportunity. At a little distance, with pale, indignant looks, though not near each other, sat his wife and son--Jenny upright, silent, her lips stern and compressed, a strange expression for her timid face to wear. She did not draw close to Nat, nor he to her, rather they preferred to remain obviously apart--it was evident that if she was divided from her husband she was also for some reason separated from her son. Indeed there had been a painful scene that morning; as Annie, on her part, had good cause to know, though the religious excitement that she had since experienced had driven the scene of the morning from her mind. She stood by the door now, uncertain what to do, her pulses quivering, and her face aflame. ‘It’s a pretty thing, isn’t it?--er--er--?’ cried Rob to her, addressing her as a stranger who had come into the house, ‘it’s a nice, good thing I should come into my dwellin’, an’ be welcomed i’ this way by my wife an’ son. There’s my wife she wo-ant kiss me for all I ask her to--she’s too good for me, happen--’ and here for a while he cried--‘or it’s like as she’s doin’ what she don’ want me to know, an’ is ashamed when an honest man comes ho-am.’ ‘You needn’t go tellin’ your vile, wicked thoughts,’ cried Jenny, absolutely excited into speech; ‘or think as there’s any one at’ll believe ye, when ye set for to take away my character. Ye’ve been my disgrace an’ shame sin’ we were wed; an’ t’ boy, he’ll be like ye, it is like enough--if ye’d set about to train him and correct him, there might a bin some chance for him, but now there’s none.’ ‘There ye go!--ye’re on at my trainin’ an’ correctin’,’ burst out Nat, his young face afire with rage and shame; ‘ye’d set my father upon me if ye could--but I can’t have t’ strap now, I’m too old for that.’ And Rob faltered with tears that t’ boy had a fine spirit--he was _his_ boy, an’ was not t’ mother’s son. ‘Come an’ kiss me, Nat--come an’ kiss me,’ he whimpered, ‘t’ mother she haven’t no heart for either on us--she’ll be tellin’ me as I am in drink, it’s like; when I haven’t not touched a drop sin’ I was here. But _ye_ will kiss me--an’ then ye’ll come wi’ me--an’ we’ll make our fortunes, an’ get away fro’ here.’