David stood opposite to the speaker all the while, motionless, save for an uneasy movement here and there when Reuben's words grew more scripturally frank than usual. Louie's face was much more positive than David's in what it said. Reuben and Reuben's vehemence annoyed and angered her. She frowned at him from under her black brows. It was evident that he, rather than his story, excited her. 'An we buried him aw reet an proper,' said Reuben at last, wiping his brow, damp with this unwonted labour of brain and tongue. 'Mr. Gurney he would ha it aw done handsome; and we put him in a corner o' Kensal Green, just as close as might be to whar they'd put her after th' crowner had sat on her. Yor feyther had left word, an Mr. Gurney would ha nowt different. But it went agen me--aye, it _did_--to leave him wi _her_ after aw!' And falling suddenly silent, Reuben sat wrapped in a sombre mist of memory. Then Louie broke out, rolling and unrolling the ribbons of her hat in hot fingers. 'I don't believe half on't--I don't see how you could know--nor Mr. Gurney either.' Reuben looked round bewildered. Louie got up noisily, went to the window and threw it open, as though oppressed by the narrowness of the room. 'No, I don't,' she repeated, defiantly--'I don't believe the half on't. But I'll find out some day.' She leaned her elbows on the sill, and, looking out into the squalid bit of yard, threw a bit of grit that lay on the window at a cat that sat sleepily blinking on the flags outside. Reuben rose heavily. 'Gie me pen and ink, Davy, an let me go.' The young man brought it him without a word. Reuben put in the address. 'Ha yo read it, Davy?' David started. In his absorption he had forgotten to read it. 'I wor forced to write it i' the top sheepfold,' Reuben began to explain apologetically, then stopped suddenly. Several times he had been on the point of bringing Hannah into the conversation, and had always refrained. He refrained now. David read it. It was written in Reuben's most laborious business style, and merely requested that Mr. Gurney would now communicate with Sandy's son direct on the subject of his father's money. He had left Needham Farm, and was old enough to take counsel himself with Mr. Gurney in future as to what should be done with it. Reuben looked over David's shoulder as he read. 'An Louie?' he said uncertainly, at the end, jerking his thumb towards her. 'I'm stayin here,' said Louie peremptorily, still looking out of window. Reuben said nothing. Perhaps a shade of relief lightened his old face. When the letter was handed back to him, he sealed it and put it into his pocket, buttoning up his coat for departure. 'Yo wor talkin abeawt dinner, Davy--or summat,' said the old man, courteously.' Thankee kindly. I want for nowt. I mun get home--I mun get home.'