For a moment Mr. Linton hesitated, not knowing what risk he might run.
“Oh! for pity’s sake don’t be cautious, David,” the Hermit begged. “I’ll be calm—anything—only don’t refuse a starving man bread! Davy, tell me!”
“They’re here, old man.”
“Here! Can I—will they—?”
“Ah, we’ve got to be careful of you, Jim, old chap,” Mr. Linton said. “You’ve been a very sick man—and you’re not better yet. But they’re only living on the hope of seeing you—of having you again—of making it up to you.”
“And they believe in me?”
“The boy—Dick—never believed a word against you,” Mr. Linton said. “And your wife—ah, if she doubted, she has paid for it again and again in tears. You’ll forgive her, Jim?”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I’ve been bitter enough God knows, but it all seems gone. You’ll bring her, Davy?”
But at the word Norah was out of the room, racing along the hall.
Out in the gardens Dick Stephenson dug mightily in the hard soil, and his mother watched him, listening always. She heard the flying footsteps on the gravel and turned quickly to meet Norah.