Francis sat down to the tea-table with Stephen and his wife; but neither of them spoke a word to him. Mr. Radcliffe had his tea in his arm-chair at the fire, as usual. Afterwards, Francis took his hat and went out. He was going to question the doctor; and the wind came rushing and howling about him as he bore onwards down the lane towards Church Dykely. In about an hour's time he came back again with red eyes. He said it was the wind, but his subdued voice sounded as though he had been crying. His father, with bent head, was smoking a long pipe; Stephen sat at the table, reading the sensational police reports in a low weekly newspaper. "Been out for a stroll, lad?" asked old Radcliffe--and it was the first voluntary question he had put for months. Stephen, listening, could not think what was coming to him. "I have been to Duffham's," answered Francis. "He--he--" with a stopping of the breath, "says that nothing can be done for my mother; that a few days now will see the end of it." "Ay," quietly responded the old man. "Our turns must all come." "_Her_ turn ought not to have come yet," said Francis, nearly breaking down. "No?" "I have been looking forward at odd moments to a time when I should be in work, and able to give her a happy home with me, father. It is very hard to come here and find _this_." Old Radcliffe took a long whiff; and, opening his mouth, let the smoke curl upwards. "Have a pipe, Francis?" "No, thank you, sir. I am going up to my mother." As he left the room, Stephen, having finished the police reports, was turning the paper to see what it said about the markets, when his father put down his pipe and began to speak. "Only a few days, he says, Ste!" "What?" demanded Stephen in his surly and ungracious tones. "She's been ailing always; and has sat up there away from us, Ste. But we shall miss her." "Miss her!" retorted Ste, leaving the paper, and walking to the fire. "Why, what good has she been? _Miss_ her? The house'll have a good riddance of her," he added, under his breath. "It'll be my turn next, Ste. And not long first, either." Stephen took a keen look at his father from beneath his overhanging, bushy eyebrows, that were beginning to turn grey. All this sounded very odd. "When you and me and Becca's left alone here by ourselves, we shall be as easy as can be," he said. "What month is it, Ste?" "November." "Ay. You'll have seen the last o' me before Christmas." "Think so?" was Stephen's equable remark. The old man nodded; and there came a pause. "And you and Becca'll be glad to get us out, Ste." Stephen did not take the trouble to gainsay it. He was turning about in his thoughts something that he had a mind to speak of. "They've been nothing but interlopers from the first--she and him. I expect you to do what's right by me, father." "Ay, I shall do what's right," answered the old man.