But that even was passed now, and George Hawker was as one who had never lived. Now on this evening we speak of, his memory came back just an instant, as she heard the boy speak of the father, but it was gone again directly. She called her servants, and was telling them to bring supper, when Charles looked suddenly in, and said,—"Here they are!"
There they were, sure enough, putting the rams into the sheep-yard. Tom Troubridge, as upright, bravelooking a man as ever, and, thanks to bush-work, none the fatter. William Lee, one of our oldest acquaintances, was getting a little grizzled, but otherwise looked as broad and as strong as ever.
They rode into the yard, and Lee took the horses.
"Well, cousin," said Tom; "I am glad to see you again."
"You are welcome home, Tom; you have made good speed."
Tom and Charles went into the house, and Mary was about following them, when Lee said, in so low a tone, that it did not reach the others,—"Mrs. Hawker!"
She turned round and looked at him, she had welcomed him kindly when he came into the yard with Tom, and yet he stood still on horseback, holding Tom's horse by the bridle. A stern, square-looking figure he was; and when she looked at his face, she was much troubled, at—she knew not what.
"Mrs. Hawker," he said, "can you give me the favour of ten minutes' conversation, alone this evening?"
"Surely, William, now!"
"Not now,—my story is pretty long, and, what is more, ma'am, somebody may be listening, and what I have got to tell you must be told in no ear but your own."