“Father,” said Maggie, poking him, her wrinkled cheeks white, her lips trembling; “father, did he say leave Isgubor Newydd?”
“You heard Mr. Thatcher, mam,” answered Gabriel stonily.
“Of course, Gabriel,” continued the steward, “there is the shop, as a favour to you, if——”
“Sir!” roared Gabriel, his hands working, his eyes blazing.
“Dad, dad dear!” cried Maggie, clinging to his arm; “father, remember.”
Mr. Thatcher had risen and was stepping towards the door. “Good-afternoon,” he said, “in two weeks, if you please.”
They watched the figure of the steward disappear through the doorway, then Gabriel took his seat by the fire.
“Leave Isgubor Newydd?” Maggie whispered.
“Well, mam, I’d rather go than stay,” said Gabriel sharply.
“Dad!”