"Yes, I thowt I would, because I ought to ha' knowd better, and not been such a blind owd owl. But there you know, parson--and I suppose you're used to it--them as you goes to advise always coots oop rough. So I thowt, as I said, I'd arsk your pardon." "If I've anything to pardon, Banks, it was forgiven the next minute. I look upon life as too short, and the work we have to do as too much, to allow room for nursing up such troubles as that." "Don't say any more, parson," said Joe, wringing his hand, with a grip of iron; "it makes me feel 'shamed like o' my sen." "I don't see why," said the vicar. "If I had been a father I dare say I should have done the same." "Down on your knees to-night, parson, and pray as you never may be," cried the old man fiercely; "that you may never nurse and bring up and love a bairn whom you toil for all your life, to find she throws you over for the first face that pleases her." "But we are not quite certain yet, Banks," said the vicar, laying his hand on the other's arm. "Yes, I am," said Banks, sturdily. "I know enew to satisfy me; but stop a moment, I meant to have a word about that, and let's have it at once. It's all my own doing, I know, but there it is, and it can't be undone. Tell me, though, parson, can you say from your heart, `Joe Banks, you're mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire--Richard Glaire--dal me! I will say it.'" The old man's voice turned hoarse, and shook at last, so that he could not speak, as he came to Richard Glaire's name, when, after an effort, he exclaimed as above, and then went on--"I don't think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?" There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the keen eyes of Daisy's father. "I say, parson," he repeated, "can you say fro' your heart, `Joe Banks, you're mista'en; I don't think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?'" There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again. "Can you say that, parson?" "No, Banks," said the vicar, sadly. "I may be mistaken, but I cannot say what you wish." "Thanky, parson, thanky," said the old man, quietly. "You'll shake hands with me afore I go." "Indeed I will, Mr Banks; indeed I will," said the vicar, heartily. "But you are not going yet." "Yes, I'm going now, parson, and if in the time as is to come you hear owt as isn't good of me, put it down to circumstances. You will, wean't you?" "You're not going away, Banks?" "Nay, nay, man, I'm not going away. Just do as I say, that's all." "How is your wife? I hope better. She seemed ill yesterday." "Ah, ah, you called yesterday, as she said. Thanky, she's on'y a poor creature now. This job's unsattled her. Good-bye, parson, good-bye." "But is there anything I can do for you, Banks?" "Nay, parson, nowt as I knows on. Good-bye, good-bye." He shook hands, and went quietly out to the garden, and along the path, leaving the vicar wondering.