“Not impossible—­no,—­maybe I could have baptised you myself if I had thought about it.  ’Tis but a sprinkle of water and ’In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.’  But somehow I never worried my head—­for as long as you were a baby I looked for the man who brought you day after day, and in my own mind left all that sort of business for him to attend to—­and when he didn’t come and you grew older, it fairly slipped my remembrance altogether.  I’m not fond of the Church or its ways,—­and you’ve done as well without baptism as with it, surely.  Innocent is a good name for you, and fits your case.  For you’re innocent of the faults of your parents whatever they were, and you’re innocent of my blunders.  You’re free to make your own life pleasant if you’ll only put a bright face on it and make the best of an awkward business.”

She was silent, standing before him like a little statuesque figure of desolation.

“As for the tale I told the neighbours,” he went on—­“it was the best thing I could think of.  If I had said you were a child I had taken in to adopt, not one of them would have believed me; ’twas a case of telling one lie or t’other, the real truth being so queer and out of the common, so I chose the easiest.  And it’s been all right with you, my girl, whichever way you put it.  There may be a few stuck-up young huzzies in the village that aren’t friendly to you, but you may take it that it’s more out of jealousy of Robin’s liking for you than anything else.  Robin loves you—­you know he does; and all you’ve got to do is to make him happy.  Marry him, for the farm will be his when I’m dead, and it’ll give me a bit of comfort to feel that you’re settled down with him in the old home.  For then I know it’ll go on just the same—­just the same—­”

His words trailed off brokenly.  His head sank on his chest, and some slow tears made their difficult way out of his eyes and dropped on his silver beard.

She watched him with a certain grave compassion, but she did not at once go, as she would usually have done, to put her arms round his neck and console him.  She seemed to herself removed miles away from him and from everything she had ever known.  Just then there was a noise of rough but cheery voices outside shouting “good-night” to each other, and she said in a quiet tone: 

“The men are away now.  Is there anything you want before I go to bed?”

With a sudden access of energy, which contrasted strangely with his former feebleness, he rose and confronted her.

“No, there’s nothing I want!” he said, in vehement tones—­“Nothing but peace and quietness!  I’ve told you your story, and you take it ill.  But recollect, girl, that if you consider any shame has been put on you, I’ve put equal shame on myself for your sake—­I, Hugo Jocelyn,—­against whom never a word has been said but this,—­which is a lie—­that my child, mine!—­was born out of wedlock!  I suffered this against myself solely for your sake—­I,