Caines removed his pipe again: “But what must I do if she should take a notion that I’m the wold gentleman—your father, I mean?” he enquired in some alarm.
Phoebe caught at the idea. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing at all,” said she. “I d’ ’low that ’ud keep her so quiet as anything. Jist you go an’ sit down in father’s chair an’ if she do say anything ye mid jist nod back or say a word or two—my father was never a man of much talk. I d’ ’low if anything ’ull pacify her that will, but mind you don’t let her take up wi’ any notion o’ gettin’ out o’ door. Here, wait a minute, I’ll come wi’ ye.”
She ran upstairs, presently returning with two or three socks, and preceding John to the kitchen, held her mother in play while he seated himself in old Sweetapple’s chair.
“Here, mother,” she cried, “here be some socks what want mendin’ awful bad. See, I’ll light lamp an’ set it behind ye. They be father’s socks, ye know—Sweetapple’s socks.”
Lizzie’s face lit up. “Ah, sure,” she replied, “Sweet-apple’s socks—this ’ere be Sweetapple’s week.”
She endeavoured to look past Phoebe towards the chair, but her daughter’s portly figure blocked the way.
“Here be the needle, look-see, an’ here be the mendin’. The socks be terr’ble broke at heel, bain’t they?”
Turning towards the light the old woman threaded the needle, and Phoebe taking advantage of the opportunity thus created, stepped towards her husband:—
“Don’t ye offer to talk to her,” she whispered, “without she speaks first.”
He nodded in reply, and going towards the window she pulled down the blind and jerked the curtains across. As she left the room she paused to gaze at the two; John was leaning back in his chair, placidly smoking, and Lizzie, who did not seem to perceive his presence, was intent on her work.