"They'll be killing, mayhaps, in the morning, and it's well for you to be clear of it, John Lowe."
"But he lost my son."
"It was a natural death for a fisherman, John Lowe, to be lost that way."
"But what reason to love him for it?"
"What reason ha' ye to hate him till you know more of him?"
Silence reigned again in the kitchen; silence until John Lowe set aside his book and made for the stairs. With his foot on the bottom step he paused and sighed. "Even after three months it's no' easy to bear. But you're right, wife, it's no' right what some of them be up to."
"No, it's no' right. An' he's not the man Lackford an' the others would ha' you believe, John."
He looked long at his wife. "No? No doubt no—but no stop to it now. If there was a way to slip a word and not be known for it; but there's no way. Come to bed, woman. But"—the girl was standing up—"where be you off to?"
The girl looked to her stepmother; and the stepmother answered for her.
"It's o'er-early for bed yet—she's goin' for an hour to Shepperd's, John. Go on, Bess, but don't stay too long."