She was thoughtful for a moment, and Travers began to hope that he was making an impression. “I’m sure that it’s Genesis twenty-two,” she said, “but I disremember the verse.” “Genesis,” he repeated, mystified. “Abraham and Isaac,” she explained her allusion. “Some sacrifices aren’t looked for from us, and the Lord sent an angel to say so in those days, but I’ve to be my own angel in these.” “But Abraham,” he said, “was going to sacrifice his son to the Lord.” “And I won’t,” she said, conveying her opinion of Travers, who had tried to “come God Almighty over her,” as she expressed it later to Tom. But Travers was not to be rebuffed. He had come to play Providence to Sam (and so far granted that her allusion was apposite), but his providence could compromise. He wasn’t an absolute Jehovah. “If Sam may not be Lance’s home companion,” he said, “at least let them be school companions. Let me pay his fees at the Grammar School, and----” He was going to add “for appropriate clothes,” but something in Anne’s attitude told him that he had gone far enough, and he stopped short with the completion of his sentence in mid air. Anne believed in education. She wasn’t convinced that a Grammar School education was superior, as education, to a Parish School, but its associations were. It gave a chance of “getting on” which transcended anything the Parish School could offer. It was a start in life which set one automatically above the lower rungs of the ladder. “Yes,” she said, but said it with a difficulty which Travers noted and, indeed, applauded. He was Lancastrian himself, and honoured her for her independence. He knew the mother-pride, the fierce individualism which she had subdued before she had consented to take a favour even for her son who earned it, and wasted no more words. “I’m glad,” he said. “Good night,” and, shaking hands, was gone. “Finish your tea, Tom,” she said to her husband who had suspended operations during the interview. “I want to clear away.” She stood a moment pensively. “I’m a weak woman,” she decided. Tom Branstone ate his tea, reserving judgment. CHAPTER II--WHERE THE SHOE PINCHED |WHEN Anne Branstone set her hand to the plough she ploughed deep, and it was not her fault if the harvest was not immense. But she did not misdirect her energy; she made certain that the seed was good seed before she harnessed her plough. To drop metaphor, she let young Sam prove that he was worth troubling over before she took trouble--trouble, that is, as Anne understood the word. Of course, she sent him “decent” to the Grammar School, and if that meant that she and Madge went without new spring hats that year, well, last year’s hats must do. It was no great matter, and the greater pride swallowed up the less. Mr. Travers paid the fees, so that her son could associate with his, and Anne saw to it thoroughly that, in externals, Sam should be worthy to associate with Lance.