Miss Triggs' bright smile faded.
"No, dear, he isn't. He spends most of his time away from me. Will you come in and see my mother? She dearly loves a visitor."
So Harebell went into a bright shining kitchen at the back of the house. There was a sewing-machine in one corner and a table littered with work. Miss Triggs' mother sat in an armchair by the fire. She was very old, but she looked at Harebell with bright eyes.
Harebell shook hands with her, and began to talk.
Miss Triggs went away for a few minutes, and in her absence Harebell asked eagerly:
"Mrs. Triggs, who do you like best, your wicked son or your good daughter?"
The old lady raised her head.
"I'll have nobody comin' here and abusin' my son, that I won't. He may be foolish, but he be my boy, and he be very good to his old mother."
"Oh!" said Harebell, abashed. "I—I—thought he was a drunkard. I would like to see him."
But Mrs. Triggs muttered angrily to herself, and when Miss Triggs came back, she could not soothe her.