“Yes,” said Geoffrey, shortly.
“Poor lass!”
Geoffrey nodded acquiescence, and they smoked for some time in silence.
“It is very kind of Miss Prawle to take her in and attend her,” said Geoffrey at last; “but I’m sure poor Madge Mullion will be very grateful.”
“My Bess arn’t made of stone,” said the old man, gruffly, as he sat staring hard across the ruddy fire, whose smoke went up through a rift. Then, re-filling the glass, he handed it to Geoffrey, who drank gladly of the spirit at the time; after which the old man refreshed himself, put on some more driftwood, and stared at his visitor.
“I should have liked to hold some shares in that mine,” he said.
“Yes, you ought to have had some, Father Prawle. Hush! was that the doctor?”
“No, only the washing of the sea in the rock holes. Maybe you’ll get me some of those shares. I can pay for them.”
“There is not one to be had, Father Prawle,” replied Geoffrey.
“Maybe you’ll sell me some of yours, Master Trethick. I’ll pay you well.”