“They’re Stephen’s barns an’ all——” Emma began on a heightened note, and then checked herself as before. “Ay, well, they do seem to belong more to your lass,” she went on, with suspicious meekness, “especially since my poor lad went down in t’ War.... But somebody’ll have to take and do for ’em, you’ll think on.” “I’ll be fetching ’em here, of course!” Mrs. Clapham announced arrogantly, defying her with her eyes, her whole soul bent on concealing the fact that she had forgotten the children’s existence. It was incredible, of course, so incredible that it frightened her, but it had happened, nevertheless. Also it made her ashamed, convicting her of selfish preoccupation in another’s need. That, however, could be atoned for, later. The one thing that mattered at the moment was that Emma should guess nothing. “They’re Tibbie’s barns, right enough, Emma Catterall!” she continued fiercely, glaring at her across the table. “Don’t you make no mistake about that! She always said as they was to come to me if by any chance she was took—not that we either on us thought as she ever would. But I’ve letters upstairs as is plain enough evidence what the poor thing wished. No lawyer’d go past ’em, and that’s flat. And if it’s plain speaking you’re happen wanting as well, she couldn’t abide you, nor the children, neither!” Emma quivered again like a tightened fiddle-string, and then quietened. “That’s not very kind, Ann Clapham,” she responded patiently, “and me with my poor lad gone down in t’ War!... Seems as if you and me ought to draw a bit nearer together at a time like this.” She paused a moment, as if to allow her time to wince at the accusation of lack of feeling.... “So you’ll be bringing the poor things back here, will you?” she concluded gently. “Ay, well, of course you know your own business best....” “Ay, I do that!” Mrs. Clapham eyed her hardly, refusing to be intimidated. “That’ll do well enough at first, likely, but what about later on? What’ll become of ’em when you move to your new spot?”