Jenny Spinner endured this tirade patiently, and went on with the washing-up in which she was engaged, only turning her head to look at Innocent as she appeared suddenly in the kitchen doorway, with her hair slightly dishevelled and the wreath of wild roses crowning her brows.

“Priscilla, where’s Dad?” she asked.

“Lord save us, lovey!  You gave me a real scare coming in like that with them roses on yer head like a pixie out of the woods!  The master?  He’s just where the doctors left ‘im, sittin’ in his easy-chair and looking out o’ window.”

“Was it—­was it all right, do you think?” asked the girl, hesitatingly.

“Now, lovey, don’t ask me about doctors, ‘cos I don’t know nothin’ and wants to know nothin’, for they be close-tongued folk who never sez what they thinks lest they get their blessed selves into hot water.  And whether it’s all right or all wrong, I couldn’t tell ye, for the two o’ them went out together, and Mr. Slowton sez ‘Good-arternoon, Miss Friday!’ quite perlite like, and the other gentleman he lifts ’is ’at quite civil, so I should say ’twas all wrong.  For if you mark me, lovey, men’s allus extra perlite when they thinks there’s goin’ to be trouble, hopin’ they’ll get somethin’ for theirselves out of it.”

Innocent hardly waited to hear her last words.

“I’m going to Dad,” she said, quickly, and disappeared.

Priscilla Friday stopped for a minute in the rolling-cut of her pastry.  Some great stress of thought appeared to be working behind her wrinkled brow, for she shook her head, pursed her lips and rolled up her eyes a great many times.  Then she gave a short sigh and went on with her work.

The farmhouse was a rambling old place, full of quaint corners, arches and odd little steps up and down leading to cupboards, mysterious recesses and devious winding ways which turned into dark narrow passages, branching right and left through the whole breadth of the house.  It was along one of these that Innocent ran swiftly on leaving the kitchen, till she reached a closed door, where pausing, she listened a moment-then, hearing no sound, opened it and went softly in.  The room she entered was filled with soft shadows of the gradually falling dusk, yet partially lit by a golden flame of the after-glow which shone through the open latticed window from the western sky.  Close to the waning light sat the master of the farm, still clad in his smock frock, with his straw hat on the table beside him and his stick leaning against the arm of his chair.  He was very quiet,—­so quiet, that a late beam of the sun, touching the rough silver white of his hair, seemed almost obtrusive, as suggesting an interruption to the moveless peace of his attitude.  Innocent stopped short, with a tremor of nervous fear.

“Dad!” she said, softly.

He turned towards her.

“Ay, lass!  What is it?”

She did not answer, but came up and knelt down beside him, taking one of his brown wrinkled hands in her own and caressing it.  The silence between them was unbroken for quite two or three minutes; then he said: