Before I had time to speak, however, old Mr Weir broke the silence.

“I’ve been telling Tom, sir, as I’ve told him many a time afore, as how he’s a deal too hard with his children.”

“Father!” interrupted Thomas, angrily.

“Have patience a bit, my boy,” persisted the old man, turning again towards me.—­“Now, sir, he won’t even hear young Tom’s side of the story; and I say that boy won’t tell him no lie if he’s the same boy he went away.”

“I tell you, father,” again began Thomas; but this time I interposed, to prevent useless talk beforehand.

“Thomas,” I said, “listen to me.  I have heard your son’s side of the story.  Because of something he said I went to Miss Oldcastle, and asked her whether she was in his late master’s shop last Thursday.  That is all I have asked her, and all she has told me is that she was.  I know no more than you what she is going to reply to my questions now, but I have no doubt her answers will correspond to your son’s story.”

I then put my questions to Miss Oldcastle, whose answers amounted to this:—­That they had wanted to buy a shawl; that they had seen none good enough; that they had left the shop without buying anything; and that they had been waited upon by a young man, who, while perfectly polite and attentive to their wants, did not seem to have the ways or manners of a London shop-lad.

I then told them the story as young Tom had related it to me, and asked if his sister was not in the house and might not go to fetch him.  But she was with her sister Catherine.

“I think, Mr Walton, if you have done with me, I ought to go home now,” said Miss Oldcastle.

“Certainly,” I answered.  “I will take you home at once.  I am greatly obliged to you for coming.”

“Indeed, sir,” said the old man, rising with difficulty, “we’re obliged both to you and the lady more than we can tell.  To take such a deal of trouble for us!  But you see, sir, you’re one of them as thinks a man’s got his duty to do one way or another, whether he be clergyman or carpenter.  God bless you, Miss.  You’re of the right sort, which you’ll excuse an old man, Miss, as’ll never see ye again till ye’ve got the wings as ye ought to have.”

Miss Oldcastle smiled very sweetly, and answered nothing, but shook hands with them both, and bade them good-night.  Weir could not speak a word; he could hardly even lift his eyes.  But a red spot glowed on each of his pale cheeks, making him look very like his daughter Catherine, and I could see Miss Oldcastle wince and grow red too with the gripe he gave her hand.  But she smiled again none the less sweetly.

“I will see Miss Oldcastle home, and then go back to my house and bring the boy with me,” I said, as we left.

It was some time before either of us spoke.  The sun was setting, the sky the earth and the air lovely with rosy light, and the world full of that peculiar calm which belongs to the evening of the day of rest.  Surely the world ought to wake better on the morrow.