She determined now to let the matter rest, and when Ernest Churchouse ventured to remind her of the subject and to repeat the opinion that it might be wise for Sabina to take the boy away from Bridetown, she postponed decision.

“I’ve thought upon it,” she said, “and I feel it can very well be left to the spring, if you see nothing against.  I’ve promised to do some braiding in my spare time this winter for a firm at Bridport that wants netting in large quantities.  They are giving it out to those who can do it; and as for Abel, he’ll go to his day-school through the winter.  And it means a great deal to me, Mister Churchouse, that you are as good and helpful to him as you were to me when I was young.  I don’t want to lose that.”

“I wish I’d been more helpful, my dear.”

“You taught me a great many things valuable to know.  I should have been in my grave years ago, but for you, I reckon.  And the child’s only a child still.  If you work upon him, you’ll make him meek and mild in time.”

“He’ll never be meek and mild, Sabina—­any more than you were.  He has plenty of character; he’s good material—­excellent stuff to be moulded into a fine pattern, I hope.  But a little leaven leavens the whole lump of a child, and what I can do is not enough to outweigh other influences.”

“I don’t fear for him.  He’s got to face facts, and as he grows he must use his own wits and get his own living.”

“The fear is that he may be spoiled and come to settled, rooted prejudices, too hard to break down afterwards.  He is a very interesting boy, just as you were a very interesting girl, Sabina.  He often reminds me of you.  There are the possibilities of beauty in his character.  He is sentimental about some things and strangely indifferent about others.  He is a mixture of exaggerated kindness in some directions and utter callousness in others.  Sentimental people often are.  He will pick a caterpillar out of the road to save it from death, and he will stone a dog if he has a grudge against it.  His attitude to Peter Grim is one of devotion.  He actually told me that it was very sad that Peter had now grown too old to catch mice.  Again, he always brings me the first primrose and spares no pains to find it.  Such little acts argue a kindly nature.  But against them, you have to set his unreasoning dislike of human beings and a certain—­shall I say buccaneering spirit.”

“He feels, and so he’ll suffer—­as I did.  The more you feel, the more you suffer.”

“And it is therefore our duty to prevent him from feeling mistakenly and wanting to make others suffer.  He may sometimes catch allusions in his quick ears that cause him doubt and even pain.  And it is certain that the sight of his father does wake wrong thoughts.  Removed from here, the best part of him would develop, and when the larger questions of his future begin to be considered in a few years time, he might then approach them with an open mind.”