“I’ve seen Moll o’ Stute’s. I’ve seen Mrs. Schofield. They remembered the features of your mother as though she died but yesterday. Besides—but there can be no question of it.”
“Well, father,” said Tom, very solemnly, “I thank God that I am indeed your son. It is not for me to judge or to forgive. I will try to be to you all your son should be.”
Jabez bent over the bed and kissed Tom’s brow, and the tears streamed down the face of the elder man, his pride humbled, his cold reserve broken down, the man of iron melted to a gentleness he had never known before.
“Do you know, Tom,” he half laughed, half sobbed, “you’re not unlike what I was at your age. You’re a Tinker, whether you like it or not.”
“And a Lisle,” added Tom, and lay back upon his pillow in great comfort. Then he added:
“So Dorothy’s my cousin.”
Jabez nodded.
“Can I come in?” spoke Dorothy’s voice outside. “Open the door, uncle, I’ve both hands full.”
“I’ll leave you together, Tom. I know more than you think I know,” whispered the old man, and quitted the room.
“Of all the born conspirators commend me to Jabez Tinker, Esq., J.P., of Wilberlee Mill, that was, and to Mr. Tom Pinder, of Co-op. Mill, also that was. Here’s your chicken-broth, sir, and you’re to drink a glass of champagne—doctor’s orders.”