She made no tarry till she reached the Ship Inn. There she entered the porch, and would have gone through the door into the house, had she not been confronted by Polly, the maid, who at that moment was coming up the passage from the bar. Polly made no attempt to give room for Mehetabel to pass; she saluted her with a stare and a look at her from head to feet, full of insolence. "Wot do you want?" asked the girl. "I wish to see and speak to father," answered Mehetabel. "I always heard as your father lies in Thursley Churchyard," answered the servant. "I mean I should like to speak with Mr. Verstage." "Oh! the landlord?" "Yes; the landlord. Where is he?" "Don' know. Somewhere about, I reckon." "It is cold, and my child is ill. I would go into the kitchen, by the fire." "Why don't you then go home?" "I have no home." "Oh! it's come to that, is it?" "Yes. Let me in." "No, indeed. This ain't the place for you. If you think you're goyne to be mistress and order about here you're mistaken. You go along; I'm goyne to shut the door." Mehetabel had not the spirit to resent this insolence. She turned in the porch and left the inn, that had once been her home, and the only home in which she had found happiness. She made her way to the fields that belonged to Simon Verstage, and after wandering through a ploughed glebe she found him. "Ah, Matabel!" said he, "glad to see you. What brings you here so early in the day?" "Dear father, I cannot tell you all, but I have left Bideabout. I can stay with him no longer, something has happened. Do not press me to tell--at least not now. I can never return to the Punch-Bowl. Will you take me in?" The old man mused. "I'll consult Polly. I don't know what she'll say to it. I'm rather dependent on her now. You see, I know nothing of the house, I always put that into Susanna's charge, and now poor Sanna is gone, Polly has taken the management. Of course, she makes mistakes, but wun'erfully few. In fact, it is wun'erful how she fits into Sanna's place, and manages the house and all--just as if she had been brought up to it. I'll go and ask her. I couldn't say yes without, much as I might wish." Mehetabel shook her head. The old man was become feeble and dependent. He had no longer a will of his own: "I will not trouble you, dear father, to ask Polly. I am quite sure what her answer will be. I must go further. Who is Guardian?" "That's Timothy Puttenham, the wheelwright." Then Mehetabel turned back in the direction of the village and came in front of the shop. Puttenham and his apprentice were engaged on the fire, and Mehetabel stood, with the babe folded in her arms, watching them at work. They might not be disturbed at the critical period when the tire was red hot and had to be fitted to the wheel.