“Whisht, will ye? Whisht! Didn’t I say it was ganged?”
Now he was straight on his feet and gazing blankly round, not seeming to see them where they had fallen apart.... “There’s nowt left o’ the things I used to know.”
“You’re out o’ practice,” Thomas murmured in an uncertain tone; and Agnes added—“It’s Marget’s blame, for never letting you play.”
“Ay, but she let me nurse fiddle on my knee, and tunes was singing in my head all the time. Now I’ve come back and they waint sing no more.”
“You’ll see they’ll sing right enough afore so long.”
He covered them again with the same unseeing eyes.
“I’d ha’ done better to stop where I were.”
Agnes put out her hand at that with a little cry. “Nay, now, Father, you mustn’t talk like that!”
“At Marget’s I see this spot as plain as plain, and my missis stirring through the rooms. I see the bits o’ sticks we bought when we was wed, and the hearth where we set together of a night. But now I’m back I can’t see any o’ they things no more.”
“Times change, dad,” pleaded his son, “but we’ll make you comfortable, I’m sure.”