"You dear boy! And if grandpa objects to your going?"
"Well, I—I think I'll go anyway. Look here, mother," he continued, hastily; "I don't want to be mean nor anything like that; and grandpa's been kind to me; but, mother—I can't stay here. Don't you see I can't stay here?"
He held his arms out to her appealingly, and she took them and put them about her neck.
"I know, dear," she said; "I know. And grandfather must let you go. I shall die of loneliness, but—you must have a chance."
"Thank you, mother! And as soon as I can earn enough you shall come to live with me."
"I shall come anyway before very long, dearie. I worked for other people before I was married. I can do it again."
She laughed a little, but on her cheeks tears glistened in the moonlight.
Then, suddenly, they were aware that Grandpa Walker was approaching them. He was coming up the road, talking to himself as was his custom when alone, especially if his mind was ill at ease. And his mind was not wholly at ease to-night. The readiness with which Pen had, that day, accepted a suggestion of employment elsewhere, had given him something of a turn. He could not contemplate, with serenity, the prospect of resuming the burdens of which his grandson had, for the last two months, relieved him. To become again a "hewer of wood and drawer of water" for his family was a prospect not wholly to his liking. He became suddenly aware that two people were standing at his gate in the moonlight. He stopped in the middle of the road, to look at them inquiringly.
"It's I, father!" his daughter called out to him. "Pen and I. We've been waiting for you."
"Eh? Waitin' for me?" he asked.