“I couldn’t ask her, dearie,” said Martha. “She was terrible late, she said, and I know how crotched her wicked old grandfather gets at feeding-time.” “How big she’s grown!” he observed carelessly. “Big!” They both repeated the word, but from a different surprise. “You said you didn’t see her,” said Martha sharply. “I saw a big young woman flying by in the cart—I didn’t know then it was Jinny.” “But you just said everything’s growed so little,” chuckled Caleb. “So it has—all except Jinny.” “And she isn’t so very big,” said Martha, “rather undersized, some folks would say.” “Well, I’m not so oversized myself,” said Will. “Will’s seen her toplofty over Methusalem,” explained Caleb. “Wait till he sees her on her pegs.” “But I did see her on her pegs,” said Will, “at ‘The Black Sheep’!” “Then why did you goo and carry that little old box?” inquired Caleb. “She wasn’t in the cart then—how was I to guess she was the Carrier?” he answered crossly. “But you could ha’ ast for the Bradmarsh carrier.” “The coach was late,” he snapped. “But Jinny hadn’t started yet,” persisted Caleb. “Bein’ as you seen her there.” “Legends, my boy, legends.” Tony Flip’s euphemism for lies rang in Will’s brain. But legends, he was finding, are not easy to sustain. One lie breeds many, and he was sorry now he had allowed himself to be made a champion weight-lifter. “I thought being so late ’twas no use asking for the Carrier—’twas you I expected,” he said, turning the war back into the enemy’s country. But they had now lumbered up with the box to the twin doors, and the task of dumping down the subject of discussion in a convenient place stayed the cross-examination. The feast for the Prodigal Son had been laid in the parlour, and the scent of the fried sausages came appetizingly on the evening air, more poetic than any of Nature’s competing odours. “Why, there’s my letter!” cried Will at the parlour door, beholding it on the mantelpiece. “You might have let me know you couldn’t meet me.” He went in and took it down. “Not opened?” he cried crossly, the muggy atmosphere of the sealed chamber adding to his irritation. “And I told you exactly the day and hour I was coming!” “We haven’t had time to get it read yet, dearie,” said Martha mildly. “I was going to take it to the dressmaker, but Saturdays I’m so busy and Sunday was Sunday, and yesterday I felt as if my ribs were grating together, and to-day was too hot.” “Well, I shan’t write again in a hurry,” he said peevishly, and was about to tear the letter in twain. But Martha snatched it from him with a cry and slipped it into her bosom. “Sit down, Will,” she pleaded. “Your sausages are spoiling.” But the Prodigal Son would not batten at once upon the fatted calf. He felt too dusty, he said, and then, imperiously pushing at the diamond-paned casement and realizing with disgust it would not open, vanished in search of soap. “He can’t be well,” whimpered Martha.