Ralph had a difficulty in keeping the tears back. The pleasant room, hung with pictures, the cheerful fire crackling in the grate, the white tablecloth and dainty china and polished knives and forks, the hot, fragrant tea and the delicious ham, were such a contrast from what he had endured so long, that he felt for a moment or two as if his emotion would completely overcome him. William wisely did not look at him, but gave all his attention to the victuals, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing his guest doing full justice to the fare. During the journey home they talked mainly about what had happened in St. Goram since Ralph went away, but William could not bring himself to tell him the truth about his mother. Again and again he got to the point, and then his courage failed him. At St. Ivel Road, William's trap was waiting for them, and they drove the two miles to St. Goram in silence. Suddenly Ralph reached out his hand as if to grasp the reins. "You are driving past our house," he said, in a tone of suppressed excitement. "Yes, that's all right," William answered, in a tone of apparent unconcern. "They're not there now." "Not there?" he questioned, with a gasp. "No. You'll come along with me for a bit." "But I do not understand," Ralph said, turning eager eyes on William's face. "Oh, I'll explain directly. But look at the crowd of folk." William had to bring his horse to a standstill, for the road was completely blocked. There was no shouting or hurrahing; no band to play "See the Conquering Hero comes." But the men uncovered their heads, and tears were running down the women's faces. Ralph had to get out of the trap to steer his way as best he could to William's store. It was a slow and painful process, and yet it had its compensations. Children tugged at his coat-tails, and hard-fisted men squeezed his hand in silence, and women held up their chubby babies to him to be kissed, and young fellows his own age whispered a word of welcome. It was far more impressive than a noisy demonstration or the martial strains of a brass band. Of the sympathy of the people there could be no doubt whatever. Everybody realised now that he had been cruelly treated--that the suspicion that rested on him at first was base and unworthy; that he was not the kind of man to do a mean or cowardly deed; and that the wrong that was done was of a kind that could never be repaired. They wondered as they crowded round him whether he knew of the crowning humiliation and wrong. The workhouse was a place that most of them regarded with horror. To become a pauper was to suffer the last indignity. There was nothing beyond it--no further reproach or shame.