Katie Jacka, her colour more set than it had been when she witnessed that marriage eight years ago, was as emotional as ever, her facile feelings only restrained at all by her husband’s rigid taciturnity, even as her high bosom was kept up by the stiffest of “temberan busks”—­a piece of wood which, like all self-respecting Cornishwomen, she wore thrust inside the front of her stays.  Philip Jacka, who was now headman at the farm, presided at the labourer’s supper in the big barn, whither everyone would presently repair, including Ishmael, if he were not too sleepy.  The Parson divided his attention between him and Mr. Lenine, who was expanding to greater and greater geniality, always with that something veiled behind his eyes.  He encouraged Ishmael, trying to draw him out when the Parson, seeing the child was, in nursery parlance, “a bit above himself,” would have kept him quiet.

“Well, young maister”—­at the phrase in the miller’s booming voice ears seemed visibly to prick down the length of the table—­“well, and how do ‘ee like helpen’ to Cry the Neck?”

“Fine, that I do,” came Ishmael’s shrill tones; “an’ I’m gwain to have en cried every year, and I’ll give ever so much bigger suppers, with beef and pasties and beer as well as cider, and saffern cakes and—­“; here his tongue failed at the list in his excitement.

Annie had gone a dull crimson, and she drew the whistling breath that with her was the precursor of storm.  Help for her outraged feelings and a snub for the young master came from a quarter which surprised them both.

“It is not you who give the supper, Ishmael,” spoke the Parson quietly; “it is your mother.  And unless you show you know how to behave she will never let you sit up again.”

Annie expelled the breath unaccompanied by any flow of words.  Archelaus sniggered, and Ishmael sat in that terrible embarrassment that only children know, when the whole world turns black and shame is so intense that it seems impossible to keep on with life at all.  His face was one burning flush, his eyes stung with tears he was too proud to let fall.  All his wonderful day had fallen about his ears, and it seemed to him that such a mortification, added to his own shamed sense of having disappointed Da Boase, would burden him so that he could never be happy again.  And only a couple of hours earlier he had realised for the first time how splendid somehow life and everything in it was, himself included ... and now all was over.  He sat staring at the congealed remains of a pasty on his plate.  He did not see how it was possible to go on living.

Suddenly a soft, very small hand slid into his lap under cover of the table’s corner, and Phoebe’s fingers curled round his as she whispered:  “Don’t ’ee mind, Ishmael.  Don’t cry.  Tell ’ee what, I’ll dance weth ’ee, so I will.”

“I’m not cryen’.”  Ishmael’s accent was always most marked when he was struggling with emotion.  “I’m not cryen’ toall.  But I don’t mind if I do dance a bit weth ’ee if you want me to.”