“Yes, I had one yesterday”—no need to tell Tom there had been no others—“He wants chocolate and cigarettes, and I put in a tin of cocoa besides, and some little squares to make soup of. He’ll be unaccountable pleased.” “How’s he gitting on?” “Valiant. He likes being along of the other lads. The only thing that worrits him is your sister.” “My sister?” “Yes, your sister Ivy. Seemingly she never answered a postcard he wrote her ten days back, and you knows he’s unaccountable set on Ivy.” “It aun’t no use, Mus’ Sumption. Ivy’s got no thought for him, I’m certain sure, and he’s only wasting time over her.” The minister’s comely face darkened, and he cracked his fingers once or twice. “It’s a pity, a lamentable pity. That boy of mine’s crazy on Ivy Beatup. Are you sure she doesn’t care about him, Tom?” “Well, who knows wot a gal thinks? I can only put two and two together. But seemingly if she’d cared she’d have answered his postcard.” “Could you put in a word for him?” Young Beatup shook his head— “I woan’t meddle. If Ivy doan’t care I can’t maake her, and I reckon mother’s unaccountable set against it too.” He had said the wrong thing. Mr. Sumption’s eyes became like burning pits. He swung his hands up and cracked them like a pistol. “Set against it, is she? Set against my Jerry? Maybe he isn’t good enough for her—a clergyman’s son for a farmer’s daughter.” “I never said naun of that,” mumbled Tom uneasily, remembering his mother’s reference to “gipsy muck.” “It’s I as might be set against it,” continued the minister. “I tell you that boy’s been bred and cut above your sister. I never sent him to a board school along of farmers’ children—I taught him myself, everything I learned at college. He’d know as much I do if he hadn’t forgotten it. Yet I’m not proud; I know the boy wants your sister Ivy and ull do something silly if he can’t get her, so when he writes to me, ‘Where’s Ivy? Find out why she didn’t answer my postcard, and tell her I’ll go mad if she doesn’t take some notice of me’—why, then, I do my best—and get told my son’s not good enough for your father’s daughter.” “I never told you any such thing,” said Tom doggedly, “but I woan’t spik to Ivy. She knows her own business best. If I were you I’d tell Jerry straight as no good ull come of his going after her. She doan’t want him—I’m certain sure of that.” The pastor’s wrath had died down into something more piteous. “I daresay you’re right, Tom, and maybe I did wrong to speak like that. After all, I was only a blacksmith till the Lord called me away.... I pray that He may not require my boasting of me.” “Well, I’m unaccountable sorry about Ivy being lik that, but I thought it better to spik plain.” Mr. Sumption sat down rather heavily at the table. “O Lord, how shall I tell Jerry? If I tell him he’ll do something wild, sure as he’s Jerry Sumption.” “Doan’t tell him. He’ll find out for himself soon enough.” Mr. Sumption groaned.