There was silence in the room, as the vicar looked sorrowfully in the keen eyes of Daisy’s father.
“I say, parson,” he repeated, “can you say fro’ your heart, ‘Joe Banks, you’re mista’en; I don’t think Richard Glaire stole away your bairn?’”
There was another pause, and Joe Banks spoke again.
“Can you say that, parson?”
“No, Banks,” said the vicar, sadly. “I may be mistaken, but I cannot say what you wish.”
“Thanky, parson, thanky,” said the old man, quietly. “You’ll shake hands with me afore I go.”
“Indeed I will, Mr Banks; indeed I will,” said the vicar, heartily. “But you are not going yet.”
“Yes, I’m going now, parson, and if in the time as is to come you hear owt as isn’t good of me, put it down to circumstances. You will, wean’t you?”
“You’re not going away, Banks?”
“Nay, nay, man, I’m not going away. Just do as I say, that’s all.”