Sage started quickly back from where her thoughts had wandered after Cyril Mallow, whom in imagination she had just overtaken and brought back from a wandering life, to bless him and make him happy, while Luke Ross had forgiven her, and every one was going to be happy once again.
“Hold your tongue, mother,” said the farmer, sharply. “I’ve given you a bit of my mind.”
“Indeed, you have,” she cried, querulously, “and, I must say, soon—”
“No, you mustn’t,” he shouted. “I’m going to talk this time. You generally do all that; but it’s my turn now.”
“Oh, just as you like, Joseph,” said Mrs Portlock, in an ill-used, protesting tone; “but I must say—”
“No, you mustn’t,” he cried again, bringing his hand down heavily upon the table with such an effect upon his wife, whose nerves were still shaken by the verbal castigation she had received before tea, that she started from her chair, hesitated a moment, and then ran sobbing out of the room.
For a moment the Churchwarden sat frowning. Then he half rose as if to call her back, but directly after he subsided into his place, and sat frowning sternly at his niece.
“Let her go,” he said. “I’ve said my mind to her. Now I want to talk to you.”
Sage hesitated, with her work in her hand; then, letting it fall, she went to the other side of the table and knelt down, resting her elbows upon her uncle’s knees, and gazing appealingly in his face.
The Churchwarden in his heart wanted to clasp her in his arms and kiss her pale, drawn face, but he checked the desire, and, putting on a judicial expression—