“Will!” Martha gave a great cry, and clutched at the letter. “My baby Will!” Caleb scratched his head. “Now which would be Will?” “Will was the freckled, good-looking one,” said Jinny. “Oh, Jinny,” said Martha. “They were all good-looking—took after Flynt. Dear heart, you can’t ha’ forgotten our tot after all that flurry. ’Tis only seven or eight years since he——” “Ay, ay,” cried Caleb. “Him what mowed the cat’s whiskers.” “No, dear heart, that was Ben.” “To be sure. Ben’s the barber in New York—or some such place.” “No, Caleb. That’s Isaac.” “Isaac? Then Will ’ud be the one what married the coffee-coloured lady.” “I told you the other day that was Christopher.” “Ay, him in Australia.” “Africa surely,” put in Elijah, puffing at his pipe with superior amusement. “They furrin places be much of a muchness,” said Caleb. “And my buoy-oys were as like as a baker’s dozen.” “There were girls in the batch,” corrected Martha. “But how you can forget that dreadful Sunday night, you who snipped the darling’s buttons——!” “If I don’t see the pig soon,” interrupted Elijah, losing patience, “the light’ll be gone altogether.” “Oi’ll git a lantern,” said Caleb placidly. “Oi often used to set and wonder how they lads knowed theirselves, the one from the ’tother. Well, the Lord bless ’em all, says Oi, wherever they goo, and whichever they be.” “So you see,” said Jinny, with a faint blush hardly visible by owl-light, “there’s no need to waste Mr. Skindle’s time over the letter.” “No more there ain’t!” said Caleb dazedly. “Come along, sir!” X But Martha still clung strangely to the letter she had snatched back. “You mustn’t strain your eyes, Jinny,” she said. “I’ll light the lamp. And you’ll take a cup of tea first. You must be tired out.” “But I can see quite well,” said Jinny. Indeed the sky, despite the risen moon, remained blue, and splashes of dying sunset burned magically through the yet empty branches of the quiet trees. There was a great sense of space and peace and beauty: a subtle waft from the stacks; the note of the thrush was full of evening restfulness. Jinny took the letter from the reluctant Martha. “He must be back in England!” she cried. “Look at the stamp.” Martha staggered against the cart. “It’s very good of God,” she said simply. Her emotion communicated itself to Jinny. Through misty eyes the girl watched a solitary heron winging on high through the great spaces, its legs sticking out like a tail. “Ah, dearie,” said Martha, recovering herself, “never forget, to say your prayers.” “I don’t,” said Jinny with equal simplicity. But she remembered with fresh remorse that she had forgotten those for the runaway. “Ever since I was a little girl,” said Martha, “I’ve wanted to please God. But of late, Jinny, I fear I’ve wanted Him to please me.”