"Such a one you are for looking on the cloudy side! There's too much good sense in the man for any such thing as teetotalism to overtake him. A moderate drinker always, and won't serve anybody beyond the twinkling eye stage. Why, he've made bitter enemies by withholding liquor where any other man wouldn't have thought twice about it. Where's Margaret to? She was coming over, wasn't she?"
"Yes," said his wife. "But 'tis nearly dark. She'll have changed her mind or been hindered."
Half an hour later Bart arrived, and he was able to explain his sister's absence.
"She's took ill," he said. "I met Rhoda back by Lowery. Madge have a cold on the chest--nought to name, but enough to keep her in against this fog. I'm feared they won't be able to go up to Ditsworthy for Christmas now, unless she mends very quick."
At his first word Mrs. Stanbury began to be busy. Under the lofty mantelshelf before the fire there hung a row of little linen bags, and in them were various simples culled through vanished spring and summer. They contained elder-flowers, marjoram, thyme, sorrel, and calamint. She selected ingredients and took them to the table.
"Us must see to this afore she gets worse," declared Constance; and soon she was preparing a decoction of herbs.
Her son had further news.
"They'm saying to Sheepstor that Bartley Crocker's off," he announced with his mouth full.
"Off where?" asked Mr. Stanbury.
"To foreign parts. 'Twas always thought he might go when his mother died. They do say he's cruel sweet on Rhoda Bowden, but I don't think she's of the same mind."