“Nay,” replied the Stranger, in a level voice. “Is there another ruin where the dream might lie?”
“Dreams!” exclaimed Tom cheerily, “dreams, dreams! ’Tis no place for dreams. You will find nothin’ but sheep bones buried on Bryn Bannog. Do you know of any other place, Owen?”
Owen took his pipe from his mouth, looked hard at his brother, hard at the Stranger, started to speak, changed his mind, and put the pipe in his mouth again.
“Will you come in an’ rest?” asked Tom. “’Tis growin’ dark.”
“My way is long, westward over the hills, an’ the child is waitin’.”
“Here,” said Tom, holding out a coin, “here is a crown for the little Flower.”
“Nay,” replied the Stranger gently, “it would avail nothin’. She hath need of many crowns. Good-night.”
As the Stranger took the path downhill, the brothers turned indoors. Jane confronted them, her eyes indignant, her lips tense.
“You—you will go after him. Och, that I should live to see this day! The Lord will find you out.”
Tom laughed.