“No. I'm perfectly well,” Sophie protested.
“You lay down till tea-time.” Mrs. Cloke patted her shoulder. “THEY'll be very pleased, though she 'as 'ad no proper understandin' for twenty years.”
“They” came before twilight—a black-bearded man in moleskins, and a little palsied old woman, who chirruped like a wren.
“I'm his son,” said the man to Sophie, among the lavender bushes. “We 'ad a difference—twenty year back, and didn't speak since. But I'm his son all the 'same, and we thank you for the watching.”
“I'm only glad I happened to be there,” she answered, and from the bottom of her heart she meant it.
“We heard he spoke a lot o' you—one time an' another since you came. We thank you kindly,” the man added.
“Are you the son that was in America?” she asked.
“Yes, ma'am. On my uncle's farm, in Connecticut. He was what they call rood-master there.”
“Whereabouts in Connecticut?” asked George over her shoulder.
“Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with my uncle.”