‘Poor little things!’ said Sally involuntarily.

His mother turned again to him.  ’I suppose these helpless beings are left in Australia?’

‘No.  They are in England.’

‘Well, I can only hope you’ve left them in a respectable place.’

’I have not left them at all.  They are here—­within a few yards of us.  In short, they are in the stable.’

‘Where?’

’In the stable.  I did not like to bring them indoors till I had seen you, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you.  They were very tired, and are resting out there on some straw.’

Mrs. Hall’s fortitude visibly broke down.  She had been brought up not without refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse of genteel aims as this than a substantial dairyman’s widow would in ordinary have been moved.  ‘Well, it must be borne,’ she said, in a low voice, with her hands tightly joined.  ’A starving son, a starving wife, starving children!  Let it be.  But why is this come to us now, to-day, to-night?  Could no other misfortune happen to helpless women than this, which will quite upset my poor girl’s chance of a happy life?  Why have you done us this wrong, Philip?  What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a family of vagabonds?’

‘Nonsense, mother!’ said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed.  ’Charley isn’t the man to desert me.  But if he should be, and won’t marry me because Phil’s come, let him go and marry elsewhere.  I won’t be ashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England—­not I!’ And then Sally turned away and burst into tears.

’Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a different tale,’ replied her mother.

The son stood up.  ‘Mother,’ he said bitterly, ’as I have come, so I will go.  All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie in your stable to-night.  I give you my word that we’ll be gone by break of day, and trouble you no further!’

Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that.  ‘O no,’ she answered hastily; ’never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family from my door.  Bring ’em in, Philip, or take me out to them.’

’We will put ’em all into the large bedroom,’ said Sally, brightening, ‘and make up a large fire.  Let’s go and help them in, and call Rebekah.’  (Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy and housework; she lived in a cottage hard by with her husband, who attended to the cows.)

Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brother said, ’You won’t want a light.  I lit the lantern that was hanging there.’

‘What must we call your wife?’ asked Mrs. Hall.

‘Helena,’ said Philip.

With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.

‘One minute before you go,’ interrupted Philip.  ’I—­I haven’t confessed all.’

‘Then Heaven help us!’ said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and clasping her hands in calm despair.