“Did you sleep, Tom?” she asked.
“Sleep! With that shriekin’ of the wind!”
“Nay,” said Owen softly, “the cryin’ of a little child, indeed.”
“There was no gold, I say,” Tom asserted.
“True,” Owen complied.
“Well, ’twas altar silver, whatever.”
“Aye,” assented Jane, “an’ it must go back to the church.”
“Yes, an’ we’re no richer,” ended Tom. “We’ve nothin’ to spare to a stranger an’ his child.”
Owen turned the leaves of the big Bible on the table. Tom was staring defiantly from Jane to Owen.