“Mam,” was all he answered, his eyes looking her through.
“I—I was goin’ to—to the town,” she faltered.
“Why?”
“To—to buy somethin’,” she replied unsteadily.
“At Mr. Thatcher’s shop?” Gabriel demanded.
“A—a little, dad,” she replied, stretching out one hand upon the wall for more support.
“Give me your purse.”
Maggie gave it to him and Gabriel opened it; there within lay the three gold pieces. Gabriel took her by the arm, and, shaking her, turned her towards home.
Another day went by, and Maggie continued to pick up things that should be packed, only to put them down again. The Welsh have tender hearts for trouble, and many a kind soul among her neighbours would have been glad to assist her. Besides, there was the added incentive of persecution which makes all the Welsh world kin and which made the village proud of Isgubor Newydd. But the thought of neighbourly assistance was repulsive to Maggie. She could not let others see those things now. Under Gabriel’s condemnation, too, she had lost her self-respect, and was furtive and half ashamed of meeting her neighbours. When Gabriel was in the house, she moved about from thing to thing, with a feint of accomplishing something of the work of which so much was to be done. But when he was out she hurried from object to object, talking incessantly to herself and whatever she touched.