"And she'd send him away from her to save Nutkin's little lad!" said Chipchase. "That's what I call being a Christian. Any minute might bring the roof over his head, and bury him alive; and old Ruth knows it. But if any soul in Broadmoor believes in God, it's Ruth; and, please God, I'll be a better man myself from this day forth."
The farmer's voice trembled as he finished speaking, and he turned his face away from the light, ashamed to let his neighbours see how much he felt.
"Old Ruth's had a hard, bitter life," said Mrs. Chipchase, sobbing; "she was near brokenhearted when Ishmael went to gaol; and she's never been the same woman since. He was like the apple of her eye, Ishmael was; and he'd worse luck than any of her children, thanks to Nutkin, I always said, and always shall say to my dying day. What was a boy's taking a few paltry eggs, I'd like to know?"
"I'll treat him like my own son," muttered Nutkin, not looking up.
"We must make it up to him," added the squire. "If I'd known he was a good lad, he should never have gone to gaol."
"Hush!" cried Elsie, who was standing beside Mrs. Chipchase.
Instantly there was a breathless stillness in the cave, and every eye was turned towards the low outer entrance, through which they could hear the dragging of weary footsteps. Bent almost double, and tottering as if every step must be the last, came old Ruth herself.
"Where's Ishmael?" she asked, looking round at her neighbours' faces with eyes dim and glazed.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
GOING HOME.