Lucy laid her fingers upon his withered hand.
"Come and get warm," she entreated. "I've got such a grand fire burning."
The old man made no reply, but kept his gaze upon her slender fingers. At last his voice came slowly, as though he were drawing up something from the dark well of his memory.
"Onced I seed a hand like yourn, onced, long ago. I's forgotten when, but I minds the hand."
"Come," said Lucy.
He rose painfully and crawled by her side. But at the kitchen door he held back.
"Nay," he repeated.
"Why?"
"I must work."
"Rubbish," said Lucy scornfully, and again she laid her hand upon his. "You've been working all your life, you can have a rest now. Let the new hind—Tom, do what's to be done."