"Yes, sir," she said. "And I know who you are. I been hopin you might happen along. Come you in and sit down."
The old man mopped his neck.
"I mustn't," he said in tones that meant "I daren't," and continued hurriedly, "I should be getting back. I'm expected home. But I had to come and wish you well." He touched her arm tremulously. "Bless you, my dear!—He's a good lad, only weak." He lowered his voice. "Keep him on the curb a bit," he whispered hurriedly. "But not too much. That's where his mother made her mistake. Drove him away from her."
Mrs. Lewknor, standing by a willow on the river-bank, saw the old man turn.
Slowly she walked across the field to the cottage.
The young woman in the door watched her with uncertain eyes that seemed to leap towards her and then retreat and leap again.
"Is that.... That aren't Ern's mother?" she asked.
The lady paused, her fine eyes dwelling on a distant roof.
"No," said Mr. Caspar. "That's a friend."
Mrs. Lewknor, who had the love of her race for beautiful things, allowed her eyes to rest on the noble creature in the door.