“I went to the Durants,” said the vicar, as he served out small portions of mutton; “it appears Alfred has run away to join the Navy.” “Do him good,” came the rough voice of the invalid. Miss Louisa, attending to the youngest child, looked up in protest. “Why has he done that?” asked Mary’s low, musical voice. “He wanted some excitement, I suppose,” said the vicar. “Shall we say grace?” The children were arranged, all bent their heads, grace was pronounced, at the last word every face was being raised to go on with the interesting subject. “He’s just done the right thing, for once,” came the rather deep voice of the mother; “save him from becoming a drunken sot, like the rest of them.” “They’re not _all_ drunken, mama,” said Miss Louisa, stubbornly. “It’s no fault of their upbringing if they’re not. Walter Durant is a standing disgrace.” “As I told Mrs Durant,” said the vicar, eating hungrily, “it is the best thing he could have done. It will take him away from temptation during the most dangerous years of his life—how old is he—nineteen?” “Twenty,” said Miss Louisa. “Twenty!” repeated the vicar. “It will give him wholesome discipline and set before him some sort of standard of duty and honour—nothing could have been better for him. But——” “We shall miss him from the choir,” said Miss Louisa, as if taking opposite sides to her parents. “That is as it may be,” said the vicar. “I prefer to know he is safe in the Navy, than running the risk of getting into bad ways here.” “Was he getting into bad ways?” asked the stubborn Miss Louisa. “You know, Louisa, he wasn’t quite what he used to be,” said Miss Mary gently and steadily. Miss Louisa shut her rather heavy jaw sulkily. She wanted to deny it, but she knew it was true. For her he had been a laughing, warm lad, with something kindly and something rich about him. He had made her feel warm. It seemed the days would be colder since he had gone. “Quite the best thing he could do,” said the mother with emphasis. “I think so,” said the vicar. “But his mother was almost abusive because I suggested it.” He spoke in an injured tone. “What does she care for her children’s welfare?” said the invalid. “Their wages is all her concern.” “I suppose she wanted him at home with her,” said Miss Louisa. “Yes, she did—at the expense of his learning to be a drunkard like the rest of them,” retorted her mother. “George Durant doesn’t drink,” defended her daughter. “Because he got burned so badly when he was nineteen—in the pit—and that frightened him. The Navy is a better remedy than that, at least.” “Certainly,” said the vicar. “Certainly.” And to this Miss Louisa agreed. Yet she could not but feel angry that he had gone away for so many years. She herself was only nineteen. III