‘You wait while I do get my breath back,’ said the old man. He had evidently been drinking and walked unsteadily. ‘Ah, that’s better! Well, Abner, I’ve a’ been down to the Buffalo to-night for a quart, and I thought as how I’d bring ’ee a bit of downright good news I heared. Yes, old Mrs Malpas she’ve got news from Shrewsbury—whether it be by letter or word of mouth I can’t say for certain—as young George have behaved himself so well into prison that they’m going to knock off part of his time. Any day this week he may be coming home along, so they says, and I thought I’d better bring the news quick to his missus.’ ‘Coming home . . .?’ said Abner, dazed. ‘Yes. ’Tis not onusual, they do say. If she’s abed you can tell her in the marnin’. Wish ’ee good-night, Abner.’ ‘I’ll tell her. Thank’ee for looking in.’ ‘Oh, that’s nothing! ’Tis only natural. Good-night!’ ‘Good-night, Mr Drew.’ He closed the door. The light fell on Mary, standing pale at the foot of the stairs. ‘He’s coming back,’ said Abner. ‘I heard. When?’ ‘He couldn’t say certain. In a day or two.’ ‘Abner!’ ‘Well, there it is! We’re only just in time, my girl.’ She stood mute, paralysed. He wished she would speak. ‘It’s no good your standing there,’ he said. ‘Go on up. I’ll hold the lamp.’ She did not move. ‘I can’t take it in,’ she said. He put the lamp down on the table again and held out his arms. Still she did not move. ‘Mary . . .!’ She obeyed, came to his arms, shuddering, shaken with sobs, and through her tears he kissed her, comforting: ‘Mary, don’t cry now, don’t cry . . .’ ‘What did I tell you?’ she wailed. ‘Abner, I knew, I knew! I told you something would happen. Thank God it came in time! We’ve not a minute to think. Two or three days! Abner, we _must_ go to-morrow.’ He did not answer her, for his mind was deeply troubled. ‘I think I can manage if you leave it to me,’ she said. He held her closer. ‘What does it matter if we take nothing away? Only just a few clothes for me and the children. I can leave everything tidy, just as it was when he went.’ She hesitated, for she remembered the tea-set that she had pawned in Shrewsbury. He would miss that. Then she realised, thankfully, that it was her wedding present, not his. ‘Nearly everything,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think it’s better that we should start with nothing? In lodgings at first. Won’t it be strange?’ She laughed softly. ‘And not a soul to know! It’s beginning life all over again. Oh, Abner, my love!’ So she spoke, confidently, at times almost gaily, and he made believe that he was listening to her, humouring her childishness. ‘And isn’t it lucky,’ she said, ‘that Mr Drew’s working up at the Pentre. You won’t need to go there yourself. If you get up early you can catch him before he goes and send up a message to the farm. It isn’t as if it mattered your breaking your word to Mr Williams. People must make allowances, mustn’t they?’