"'Tisn't necessary, mother," quoted her husband. "I want this here cake to mean something. I'll just take it myself," and in a moment he was striding energetically across the intervening paddock, the untiring form of the little labourer alternately rising and falling as he plied his laborious toil.
"Your father is the best-hearted man in the county, Madeline," Mrs. Borland ventured when her husband was out of hearing.
"He's the best man in the world," the girl amended fervently; "and Cecil says his father's a member of the Church and mine isn't," she went on more vehemently; "he said father didn't believe the right things—and I just told him they weren't the right things if my father didn't believe them, and I wouldn't believe them either," the youthful heretic affirmed. "Lally Kerr told me Cecil's father made some poor people give him money for rent that they needed for a stove—I didn't want to tell Cecil that, but when he said his father believed all the right things I told him my father did all the good things, and he was kind to the poor—and I told him he was kind to them because he was poor once himself and used to work so hard with his hands, and——"
"Why, child," and the mother frowned a little, "where did you get that idea? Who told you that?"
"Father told me," replied the child promptly. "He told me himself, and I think I heard him telling Cecil's father that once too—Cecil's father wanted not to give so much money to the men that worked for him. I think they were talking about that, and that was when father said it," the unconscious face looking proudly up into her mother's.
"You don't need to speak about it, dear; it doesn't sound well to be—to be boasting about your father, you know. Now run away and get ready for lunch; father 'll be back in a minute."
The child turned to go upstairs, singing as she went, forgetful of the mild debate and blissfully ignorant of all the human tumult that lay behind it, conscious only of a vague happiness at thought of the great heart whose cause she had championed in her childish way. Less of contented joy was on the mother's face as she looked with half exultant eyes upon the luxury about her, trophies of the wealth that had been so welcome though so late.
Prompted by the conversation with Madeline, her mind roamed swiftly over the bygone years; the privations of her early married life, the growing comfort that her husband's toil had brought, the trembling venture into the world of manufacture, the ensuing struggle, the impending failure, the turning tide, the abundant flow that followed—and all the fairy-land into which increasing wealth had borne her. Of all this she thought as she stood amid the spoils—and of the altered ways and loftier friends, of the whirl and charm of fashion, of the bewildering entrance into such circles of society as their little town afforded, long envied from afar, now pouring their wine and oil into still unhealing wounds. Dimly, too, it was borne in upon her that her husband's heart, lagging behind her own, had been content to tarry among the simple realities of old, unspoiled by the tardy success that had brought with it no sense of shame for the humble days of yore, and had left unaltered the simplicity of an honest, kindly heart.
Her husband, in the meantime, had arrived at the side of his youthful employee, his pace quickening as he came nearer to the lad, the corners of his mouth relaxing in a sort of unconscious smile that bespoke the pleasure the errand gave him. Absorbed in his work, and hearing only the rattle of the potatoes as they fell steadily into the pail beside him, the boy had not caught the approaching footfalls; he gave a little jump as Mr. Borland called him by his name.
"Here's a little something for you, my boy—the missus sent it out."