Some imp of mischief must have haunted the farm on the evening of Mr. Sauls' departure. He had been baulked once, but was not to be suppressed. Tom was in a teasing mood, his curious greenish hazel eyes alight with rather revengeful fun, and he kept harassing Mrs. Tremnell with a fire of jokes which she could not understand; she had given him an uncomfortable quarter of an hour after supper, and now she should pay for it. But his triumph, alas! was short-lived. Meg had coaxed her father-in-law into coming down, and sat next him, singing song after song for him, trying to pierce that periodical black cloud which would wrap him in cold lonely misery. Mrs. Tremnell tatted with a very injured air, and was on the verge of tears.
It was in the hope of interesting Mr. Thorpe that Meg began talking about the fever at Lupcombe.
"Barnabas does not say much about it. I have his letter here," she said: and, putting her hand in her pocket, drew out the wrong one.
"No; that is my sister's. This is his," cried Meg; then stopped short, aware of something in the air—of two pairs of eyes fixed eagerly on her.
"Hallo! How's this?" said Tom. "Why did ye tell me that it was your sister's letter I burnt, eh? an' that ye'd had no others?"
"I thought it was hers, but it could not have been, since I still have it," said Meg. "Why! what could you have burnt then? It wasn't mine at all. I suppose it must have belonged to some one else."
She got up quickly, and left the old man, who sat with his head on his hands quite unmoved by this stir and excitement.
"Why do you look at me so?" she cried, crossing over to where Tom sat, still but half understanding.
Tom put his hand before his eyes. Barnabas' wife had bewitched him into believing her once, in spite of evidence. He wouldn't be bewitched again. There was no other "Margaret" at the farm; she could not have "forgotten". It could not have belonged to some one else! Why did she say that? Why did she tell him lies? He had been so sure that she was true, even though that London gentleman might have been trying to "make hay" in her husband's absence. He had been too sure.
"It must have been the letter of some one else—not mine at all," she repeated. "It——"