He threw himself into her arms, laughing and crying at the same moment.
Ruth could not weep; but she held him fast in her arms, until he lifted up his head to look into her dear face. There was no one near to see them; they were as much alone as in their own quiet woods; only that grim and ugly building looked down upon their meeting with its hollow eyes.
She drew him away to a lonely spot under its walls; and they sat down together on the grass, whilst, with her trembling hands, she untied the little packet of home-made bread, baked in their own oven, which she had brought for them to eat together, before they had to part again.
"I never meant any harm, mother," he said, when their meal was over. "I never thought of anything save little Elide wishing for 'em. But I know it was poaching; and oh, mother, it 'll turn up against me all my life."
"I'm afeared so, lad," she answered, sighing. "But hast thee asked God's forgiveness, Ishmael?"
"Often and often," he replied, eagerly. "Mother, I never forgot to sing, 'Glory to Thee, my God, this night;' only I sang it low, in a whisper; like I used to do when father was at home. I thought you'd be singing it as well, mother."
"Ay," she said, softly; "thank God I could sing it after the first evenin', Ishmael."
"When I get home," he went on, "I'll go up to the Hall and ask the squire to forgive me; I'll beg and pray of him; and if he will, maybe I can go to work with Mr. Chipchase, like I was to go before I came here."
"He's got another waggoner's boy," answered his mother; "and thee 'rt not to go home with me, but do thy best away from home. Father won't hear of it; and maybe the squire 'ud get us turned out altogether if thee comes home. But if God has forgiven thee—"
"Not go home with you, mother?" he cried.