"I should like to have a shot at it," put in Sep, who had just despatched a large piece of cake. "Heaven forbid!" exclaimed his father, only half in jest. "Better sit all day under the lee of a boat and make nets, like Sea Andrew," advised Loo, with a laugh. "Do you think so?" said Miriam, without looking up. "All the same, I'd like to have a shot at it," persisted Sep. "Pass the cake, please." Loo had risen and was looking at the clock. His face was drawn and tired and his eyes grave. "You will come in and see us as often as you can while you are here?" said the kindly rector, as if vaguely conscious of a change in this visitor. "You will always find a welcome whether you come in a coach-and-four or on foot--you know that." "Thank you--yes. I know that." The rector peered at him through his spectacles. "I hope," he said, "that you will soon be successful in getting your own. You are worried about it, I fear. The responsibilities of wealth, perhaps. And yet many rich people are able to do good in the world, and must therefore be happy." "I do not suppose I shall ever be rich," said Loo, with a careless laugh. "No, perhaps not. But let us hope that all will be for the best. You must not attach too much importance to what I said about France, you know. I may be wrong. Let us hope I am. For I understand that your heritage is there." "Yes," answered Loo, who was shaking hands with Sep and Miriam, "my heritage is there." "And you will go back to France?" inquired Marvin, holding out his hand. "Yes," was the reply, with a side glance in the direction of Miriam. "I shall go back to France." CHAPTER XXVIII BAREBONE'S PRICE At Farlingford, forgotten of the world, events move slowly and men's minds assimilate change without shock. Old people look for death long before it arrives, so that when at last the great change comes it is effected quite calmly. There is no indecent haste, no scrambling to put a semblance of finish to the incomplete, as there is in the hurried death of cities. Young faces grow softly mellow without those lines and anxious crow's-feet that mar the features of the middle-aged, who, to earn their daily bread or to kill the tedium of their lives, find it necessary to dwell in streets. "Loo's home again," men told each other at "The Black Sailor"; and the women, who discussed the matter in the village street, had little to add to this bare piece of news. There was nothing unusual about it. Indeed, it was customary for Farlingford men to come home again. They always returned, at last, from wide wanderings, which a limited conversational capacity seemed to deprive of all interest. Those that stayed at home learnt a few names, and that was all. "Where are ye now from, Willum?" the newly returned sailor would be kindly asked, with the sideward jerk of the head. "A'm now from Va'paraiso."