Jimmy and the two girls spoke wonderingly about Old Paul at the breakfast table; Patience silenced them querulously, as she had done any time these ten years over awkward questions. And all the time she wondered what she should do, or to whom she should go; Anthony Ditchburn was impossible, and there seemed no one else. Yet someone must be told, and that soon. The difficulty grew with Anthony Ditchburn. The going of Paul to London had always spelt for Ditchburn tobacco; and in this case it happened that, seeing fresh tobacco near at hand, the man had smoked more than usual, and his supply was exhausted. He came piteously to Patience, after she had dismissed the children to the rectory, and held out a ragged, empty pouch. "He should have been back before this, Patience," he whimpered. "Even if he couldn't get back, he might have sent it. My work at a standstill--and my nerves shattered; it isn't fair. It's so little I ask----" She turned a stony face to him. "There's no tobacco for you--and I know nothing about it," she said. "Did he ever forget any one of you?" "He was never as careful as he might have been," retorted Anthony; and was staggered when she turned upon him fiercely, and drove him from the room. She went up more than once during the day to that room; she was a little proud of the fact that she alone knew what had happened, and that she had him there to herself. Coming down on the last occasion, she heard someone moving about quietly in the room Old Paul had used as his study; with a raging heart against Anthony Ditchburn, she went straight in, with set teeth, to face him. And faced instead, the girl Moira--looking at her with eyes before the light of which her own fell. The girl held a paper in her hand; she held it out towards the woman. "He's been here--last night," she said, in a whisper. "Why, dearie, whatever are you talking about?" asked Patience, fearfully. "And what brings you back now?" "I couldn't stay; I knew that he had come back," whispered Moira, watching the woman. "I knew it this morning; in a dream I had he called to me last night. And look at this; see what he's written!" Patience went tremblingly towards the child; but in an instant Moira had snatched back the paper, and was rapidly folding it. "No--not for you to see--not for anyone to see," she said. "It was written for me--meant only for me. Where is he?" Patience broke down at once; spread out tremulous hands towards the child, to soothe and silence her. "Now, my dear, there's nothing for you to ask about--nothing for you to know. And even if he did come back last night----" The girl had raced out of the room, and was half-way up the stairs before the old woman had reached the door. Patience stood there, trembling and cowering against the wall; she heard the rattling of the handle of the door above. And that roused her as nothing else could have done; she stumbled up the stairs, whispering entreaties as she went.