“Well, James,” she said, “that is the first sensible thing you have ever done about that man.  You have thoroughly spoiled him, and now it is very likely too late to discipline him.”

“Yes—­perhaps—­you may be right.”  He knew her to be right, but he did not like her agreement with his decision to be connected with even her mild statement that it had been better if long before he had been more reasonably severe and treated Lamb as others would have treated him.  In the minor affairs of life Ann Penhallow used the quick perception of a woman, and now and then brought the Squire’s kindly excesses to the bar of common sense.  Sometimes the sentence was never announced, but now and then annoyed at his over-indulgent charity she allowed her impatience the privilege of speech, and then, as on this occasion, was sorry to have spoken.

Dismissing his slight vexation, Penhallow said presently, “He told me his mother was sick.”

“She was not yesterday.  I took her our monthly allowance and some towels I wanted hemmed and marked.  He lied to you, James.  Did you believe him even for a moment?”

“But she might be sick, Ann.  I meant you to stop and ask.”

“I will, of course.”  This time she held her tongue, and left him at Grace’s door.

The perfect sweetness of her husband’s generous temperament was sometimes trying to Ann in its results, but now it had helped her out of an awkward position, and with pride and affection she watched his soldierly figure for a moment and then went on her way.

Intent with gladness on fulfilling his wife’s errand, he went up the steps of the small two-storey house of the Baptist preacher.  He had difficulty in making any one hear where there was no one to hear.  If at Westways the use of the rare bells or more common knockers brought no one to the door, you were free to walk in and cry, “Where are you, Amanda Jane, and shall I come right up?” Penhallow had never set foot in the house, but had no hesitation in entering the front room close to the narrow hall which was known as the front entry.  The details of men’s surroundings did not usually interest Penhallow, but in the mills or the far past days of military service nothing escaped him that could be of use in the work of the hour.  The stout little Baptist preacher, with his constant every-day jollity and violent sermons, of which he had heard from Rivers, in no way interested Penhallow.  When he once said to Ann, “The man is unneat and common,” she replied, “No, he is homely, but neither vulgar nor common.  I hate his emotional performances, but the man is good, James.”  “Then I do wish, Ann, he would button his waistcoat and pull up his socks.”