He had seen Tilly at intervals through the years, but as he had never allowed himself to give her more than a withering glance, he had not a very definite idea of her. She was now nearly fifty-five, and more than inclined to stoutness--indeed, her comfortable figure was almost ludicrous compared with her haggard, anxious face, scored with lines and patched with shadows. Her grey hair was thin, and straggled on her forehead, her eyes had lost their brightness; yet there was nothing wild or terrible about her face, it was just domesticity in desperation. "Fäather," she said as Reuben came into the room. "Well?" "Henry döan't know I've come," she murmured helplessly. "Wot have you come fur?" "To ask you--to ask you--Oh, fäather!" she burst into tears, her broad bosom heaved under her faded gown, and she pressed her hands against it as if to keep it still. "Döan't täake on lik that," said Reuben, "tell me wot you've come fur." "I dursn't now--it's no use--you're a hard man." "Then döan't come sobbing and howling in my parlour. You can go if you've naun more to say." She pulled herself together with an effort. "I thought you might--perhaps you might help us ..." Reuben said nothing: "We're in a larmentable way up at Grandturzel." Her father still said nothing. "I döan't know how we shall pull through another year." "Nor do I." "Oh, fäather, döan't be so hard!" "You said I wur a hard man." "But you'll--you'll help us jest this once. I know you're angry wud me, and maybe I've treated you badly. But after all, I'm your daughter, and my children are your grandchildren." "How many have you got?" "Five--the youngest's rising ten." There was a pause. Reuben walked over to the window and looked out. Tilly stared at his back imploringly. If only he would help her with some word or sign of understanding! But he would not--he had not changed; she had forsaken him and married his rival, and he would never forget or forgive. She had been a fool to come, and she moved a step or two towards the door. Then suddenly she remembered the anguish which had driven her to Odiam. She had been frantic with grief for her husband and children; only the thought of their need had made it possible for her to override her inbred fear and dislike of Reuben and beg him to help them. She had come, and since she had come it must not be in vain; the worst was over now that she was actually here, that she had actually pleaded. She would face it out. "Fäather!" she called sharply. He turned round. "I thought maybe you'd lend us some money--just fur a time--till we're straight agäun." "You'd better ask somebody else." "There's no one round here as can lend us wot we need--it's--it's a good deal as we'll want to see us through." "Can't you mortgage?" "We are mortgaged--the last foot"--and she burst into tears again. Reuben watched her for a minute or two in silence.