“Set the candle on the table,” he said; “’tis an odd box. Is the door fast, Owen?”
“Aye, fast.”
“To think it’s lain in our pastures these hundreds of years.”
Tom undid the hasps. He lifted out one chalice of silver after another, and several silver plates, all marked with early dates. Tom looked disappointed; Owen’s face had grown pallid. Jane was speaking to them both:—
“’Tis the lost church silver, the altar-service, aye, the holy altar-service; now what will you do?” she cried.
At the breakfast table the porridge was eaten in silence. Jane’s eyes were red. Tom looked uneasy, and Owen stared into his dish. In vain Gwennie thrust her little white nose against Owen’s leg. “Baa-a!” Still no attention.
“I’m glad the wind is quiet,” said Jane.
There was no response.