"Yes. I dun'no'. Law's right, but Yare's had a bad chance, an' he's tryin'. An' we're sendin' him to hell. Somethin' 's wrong. But I think yoh're a just man," looking keenly in Holmes's face. "A hard one, people say," said Holmes, after a pause, as they walked on. He had spoken half to himself, and received no answer. Some blacker shadow troubled him than old Yare's fate. "My mother was a hard woman,--you knew her?" he said, abruptly. "She was just, like yoh. She was one o' th' elect, she said. Mercy's fur them,--an' outside, justice. It's a narrer showin', I'm thinkin'." "My father was outside," said Holmes, some old bitterness rising up in his tone, his gray eye lighting with some unrevenged wrong. Polston did not speak for a moment. "Dunnot bear malice agin her. They're dead, now. It wasn't left fur her to judge him out yonder. Yoh've yer father's Stephen, 'times. Hungry, pitiful, like women's. His got desper't' 't th' last. Drunk hard,--died of 't, yoh know. But SHE killed him,--th' sin was writ down fur her. Never was a boy I loved like him, when we was boys." There was a short silence. "Yoh're like yer mother," said Polston, striving for a lighter tone. "Here,"--motioning to the heavy iron jaws. "She never--let go. Somehow, too, she'd the law on her side in outward showin', an' th' right. But I hated religion, knowin' her. Well, ther' 's a day of makin' things clear, comin'." They had reached the corner now, and Polston turned down the lane. "Yoh 'll think o' Yare's case?" he said. "Yes. But how can I help it," Holmes said, lightly, "if I am like my mother, here?"--putting his hand to his mouth. "God help us, how can yoh? It's hard to think father and mother leave their souls fightin' in their childern, cos th' love was wantin' to make them one here." Something glittered along the street as he spoke: the silver mountings of a low-hung phaeton drawn by a pair of Mexican ponies. One or two gentlemen on horseback were alongside, attendant on a lady within, Miss Herne. She turned her fair face, and pale, greedy eyes, as she passed, and lifted her hand languidly in recognition of Holmes. Polston's face coloured. "I've heered," he said, holding out his grimy hand. "I wish yoh well, Stephen, boy. So'll the old 'oman. Yoh'll come an' see us, soon? Ye'r' lookin' fagged, an' yer eyes is gettin' more like yer father's. I'm glad things is takin' a good turn with yoh; an' yoh'll never be like him, starvin' fur th' kind wured, an' havin' to die without it. I'm glad yoh've got true love. She'd a fair face, I think. I wish yoh well, Stephen."