Now, she stood at the window again, with features slightly relaxed. Such an expression informed her face as may be seen, sometimes, on the faces of steerage passengers upon trans-Atlantic boats taking leave for ever of their native land.
She turned from the window and went, heavily, into the kitchen.
Had she waited a minute longer, she would have seen a sign. Through the falling rain shone a strange light, palely amber. It illuminated the dull water-meadows, evoking colour—iridescent, opaline tints—where colour had ceased to be. It transmuted, magically, the sombre lead of the swollen river into sparkling gold. And then, swiftly, the light failed, the vision splendid vanished like a mirage, leaving behind a desert.
She went up stairs. Fancy said eagerly:
"What does Mr. Hamlin say, Mother?"
Mrs. Yellam hesitated, for one second only. She was unprepared for this question; she had forgotten the small maid who had scuttled into the room, saying that the Parson wanted to see Mrs. Yellam. With a tremendous effort she lied superbly, this woman who loathed lies because, in her masculine wisdom, she knew that lies made all ordinary matters worse instead of better.
She held up her finger.
"You be much too curious, my girl. Mr. Hamlin dropped in, very friendly-like, to ask me about the baby's christening. He be a oner for gettin' the lambs into the fold so quick as may be."
Fancy was quite satisfied.
"I told 'un," continued Mrs. Yellam placidly, embroidering her theme after a fashion which surely would have provoked envy and commendation from Uncle, "that you'd be up and about in no time. We passed a few cheerful remarks about this be-utiful weather, and then off he goes."