He himself was eating with evident enjoyment and making good progress in spite of his handicap; and it was grannie who continued the conversation. “A bad lot is Baldwin Briggs, and the son and grandson of bad ’uns; black-hearted as t’ bog and hard as t’ rock on Gordel; all for theirselves, and ne’er troubling to put a fair face on i’ front o’ their neighbours; and that mean they’d let crows pick their bones to save a burying——” They were strong words for such a thin, weak voice; and they conveyed the impression of a strong will. The deeply seamed shrivelled face, in which the sunken eyes were dim as unclean lanterns and the receding mouth gave away the secret of tenantless gums, was that of a woman who had ruled her household in her day, and with a firm hand. Her eyes were fixed on her grandson and the jaw continued to move long after her son interrupted her. “Now come, mother,” said he, “let’s give Baldwin a rest. A bad ’un he may be, but if badness was passed on from his grandfather same as t’ twist of his mouth and them nose-whiskers of his, he’s more to be pitied than blamed. But trouble’s as you make it, and a poor seasoning for meat at any time. Jagger’ll none burst if he bottles his for a while, so we’ll just keep t’ cork in and enjoy what’s set before us, if you please.” Jagger made an impatient gesture; but catching the warning look in Hannah’s eye restrained himself, and went on with his meal. Grannie, however, ate little and was not to be silenced; indeed she was apparently unconscious of the prohibition. The half-sightless eyes stared into space as if she saw there the ghosts of the dead whom memory had summoned. “There was never but one son born to any Briggses. There mud be as many as half a dozen lasses, and Keturah’s great-aunt, I bethink me, had nine; but there was never more nor one lad in any o’ their families, and he was always a Baldwin and always a bad ’un, and came to a bad end.” Maniwel’s fist came down upon the table with a force that set all the pots a-dancing. “That’ll do, mother,” said he. “Give a dog a bad name and it’ll live up to it. Baldwin isn’t dead yet, and there’s room for him to mend. Pour your grannie out a cup more tea, Hannah, and keep her busy, or we shall be having all t’ Briggses’ corpses for generations back laid aside o’ t’ table before we’ve finished.” He began roughly but ended on a note of humour and the meal was completed without further incident. Then as grannie returned to her seat and Hannah cleared the table Maniwel bade his son draw up to the hearth. “Now,” he said, “let’s hear what’s been amiss between you and Baldwin.” The look of strain and annoyance had never left the young man’s face, and he scowled heavily, goaded by his father’s half bantering tone. His long legs were thrust out on to the hearth, his hands were buried in his trousers pockets, and his temper, like his limbs, was at full stretch.