The name broke from his lips like a cry of suffering, and she ran to him trembling.
"Dad, dear, what is it?"
He caught her outstretched hands and held them close.
"Nothing—nothing!" he answered, drawing his breath quick and hard—"Nothing, lass! No pain—no—not that! I'm only frightened! Frightened!—think of it!—me frightened who never knew fear! And I—I wouldn't tell it to anyone but you—I'm afraid of what's coming—of what's bound to come! 'Twould always have come, I know—but I never thought about it—it never seemed real! It never seemed real—"
Here the door opened, admitting a flood of cheerful light from the outside passage, and Robin Clifford entered.
"Hullo, Uncle! Supper's ready!"
The old man's face changed instantly. Its worn and scared expression smoothed into a smile, and, loosening his hold of Innocent, he straightened himself and stood erect.
"All right, my lad! You've worked pretty late!"
"Yes, and we've not done yet. But we shall finish stacking tomorrow," answered Clifford—"Just now we're all tired and hungry."
"Don't say you're thirsty!" said the old farmer, his smile broadening.
"How many barrels have been tapped to-day?"