“Aye, aye, we’re coming,” Seth answered from within, and presently appeared stooping under the doorway, being taller than usual by the black head of a sturdy two-year-old nephew, who had caused some delay by demanding to be carried on uncle’s shoulder.
“Better take him on thy arm, Seth,” said Dinah, looking fondly at the stout black-eyed fellow. “He’s troublesome to thee so.”
“Nay, nay: Addy likes a ride on my shoulder. I can carry him so for a bit.” A kindness which young Addy acknowledged by drumming his heels with promising force against Uncle Seth’s chest. But to walk by Dinah’s side, and be tyrannized over by Dinah’s and Adam’s children, was Uncle Seth’s earthly happiness.
“Where didst see him?” asked Seth, as they walked on into the adjoining field. “I can’t catch sight of him anywhere.”
“Between the hedges by the roadside,” said Dinah. “I saw his hat and his shoulder. There he is again.”
“Trust thee for catching sight of him if he’s anywhere to be seen,” said Seth, smiling. “Thee’t like poor mother used to be. She was always on the look out for Adam, and could see him sooner than other folks, for all her eyes got dim.”
“He’s been longer than he expected,” said Dinah, taking Arthur’s watch from a small side pocket and looking at it; “it’s nigh upon seven now.”
“Aye, they’d have a deal to say to one another,” said Seth, “and the meeting ’ud touch ’em both pretty closish. Why, it’s getting on towards eight years since they parted.”
“Yes,” said Dinah, “Adam was greatly moved this morning at the thought of the change he should see in the poor young man, from the sickness he has undergone, as well as the years which have changed us all. And the death of the poor wanderer, when she was coming back to us, has been sorrow upon sorrow.”
“See, Addy,” said Seth, lowering the young one to his arm now and pointing, “there’s Father coming—at the far stile.”