“It’s no good if his stomach won’t have it,” said Tom, in mild reproof, as if he were speaking of a child. Arthur filled George’s glass with beer without speaking. The two young men were full of kind, gentle attention. “Let ’im ’a’e a spoonful o’ tonnup then,” persisted the old man. “I canna eat while ’is plate stands there emp’y.” So they put turnip and onion sauce on George’s plate, and he took up his fork and tasted a few mouthfuls. The men ate largely, and with zest. The sight of their grand satisfaction, amounting almost to gusto, sickened him. When at last the old man laid down the dessert spoon which he used in place of a knife and fork, he looked again at George’s plate, and said: “Why tha ’asna aten a smite, not a smite! Tha non goos th’ raight road to be better.” George maintained a stupid silence. “Don’t bother him, father,” said Emily. “Tha art an öwd whittle, feyther,” added Tom, smiling good-naturedly. He spoke to his father in dialect, but to Emily in good English. Whatever she said had Tom’s immediate support. Before serving us with pie, Emily gave her brother junket and damsons, setting the plate and the spoon before him as if he were a child. For this act of grace Tom looked at her lovingly, and stroked her hand as she passed. After dinner, George said, with a miserable struggle for an indifferent tone: “Aren’t you going to give Cyril a glass of whisky?” He looked up furtively, in a conflict of shame and hope. A silence fell on the room. “Ay!” said the old man softly. “Let ’im ’ave a drop.” “Yes!” added Tom, in submissive pleading. All the men in the room shrank a little, awaiting the verdict of the woman. “I don’t know,” she said clearly, “that Cyril wants a glass.” “I don’t mind.” I answered, feeling myself blush. I had not the courage to counteract her will directly. Not even the old man had that courage. We waited in suspense. After keeping us so for a few minutes, while we smouldered with mortification, she went into another room, and we heard her unlocking a door. She returned with a decanter containing rather less than half a pint of liquor. She put out five tumblers. “Tha nedna gi’e me none,” said the old man. “Ah’m non a proud chap. Ah’m not.” “Nor me neither,” said Arthur. “You will Tom?” she asked. “Do you want me to?” he replied, smiling. “I don’t,” she answered sharply. “I want nobody to have it, when you look at the results of it. But if Cyril is having a glass, you may as well have one with him.” Tom was pleased with her. She gave her husband and me fairly stiff glasses. “Steady, steady!” he said. “Give that George, and give me not so much. Two fingers, two of your fingers, you know.” But she passed him the glass. When George had had his share, there remained but a drop in the decanter. Emily watched the drunkard coldly as he took this remainder. George and I talked for a time while the men smoked. He, from his glum stupidity, broke into a harsh, almost imbecile loquacity.