The table was laden with two capons, a ham, a great sugared cake, a whole Dutch cheese, an old-fashioned cut-glass decanter containing brown sherry, and two green wine-glasses for its reception; yet these luxuries tempted neither husband nor wife to much enjoyment of them.  Indeed Phoebe’s obvious lowness of spirits presently found its echo in Will.  The silences grew longer and longer; then the husband set down his knife and fork, and leaving the head of the table went round to his wife’s side and took her hand and squeezed it, but did not speak.  She turned to him and he saw her shut her eyes and give a little shiver.  Then a tear flashed upon her lashes and twinkled boldly down, followed by another.

“Phoebe!  My awn li’l wummon!  This be a wisht home-comin’!  What the plague’s the matter wi’ us?”

“Doan’t ’e mind, dear heart.  I’m happy as a bird under these silly tears.  But ‘twas the leavin’ o’ faither, an’ him so hard, an’ me lovin’ him so dear, an’—­an’—­”

“Doan’t ’e break your heart ’bout him.  He’ll come round right enough.  ‘Twas awnly the pang o’ your gwaine away, like the drawin’ of a tooth.”

“Everybody else in the world knaws I ought to be here,” sobbed Phoebe, “but faither, he won’t see it.  An’ I caan’t get un out of my mind to-night, sitting that mournfui an’ desolate, wi’ his ear deaf to Billy’s noise an’ his thoughts up here.”

“If he won’t onderstand the ways of marriage, blessed if I see how we can make him.  Surely to God, ’twas time I had my awn?”

“Ess, dear Will, but coming to-day, ’pon top of my gert joy, faither’s sorrow seemed so terrible-like.”

“He’ll get awver it, an’ so will you, bless you.  Drink up some of this braave stuff mother left.  Sherry ’t is, real wine, as will comfort ’e, my li’l love.  ’Tis I be gwaine to make your happiness henceforward, mind; an’ as for Miller, he belongs to an auld-fashioned generation of mankind, and it’s our place to make allowances.  Auld folk doan’t knaw an’ won’t larn.  But he’ll come to knaw wan solid thing, if no more; an’ that is as his darter’ll have so gude a husband as she’ve got faither, though I sez it.”

“’Tis just what he said I shouldn’t, Will.”

“Nevermind, forgive un, an’ drink up your wine; ’twill hearten ’e.”

A dog barked, a gate clinked, and there came the sound of a horse’s hoofs, then of a man dismounting.

Will told the rest of the story afterwards to Mrs. Blanchard.

“‘’Tis faither,’ cries Phoebe, an’ turns so pale as a whitewashed wall in moonlight.  ‘Never!’ I sez.  But she knawed the step of un, an’ twinkled up from off her chair, an’ ’fore ever the auld man reached the door, ‘t was awpen.  In he comed, like a lamb o’ gentleness, an’ said never a word for a bit, then fetched out a little purse wi’ twenty gawld sovereigns in it.  An’ us all had some fine talk for more’n an hour, an’ he was proper faither to me, if you’ll credit it; an’ he drinked a glass o’ your wine, mother, an’ said he never tasted none better and not much so gude.  Then us seed un off, an’ Phoebe cried again, poor twoad, but for sheer happiness this time.  So now the future’s clear as sunlight, an’ we’m all friends—­’cept here an’ theer.”