"Wot'll become of him, I wäonder?" asked Hilder, the new man at Socknersh.
"Someone 'ull buy him up, I reckon," and young Coalbran, who had succeeded his father at Doozes, winked at the rest of the bar, and the bar to a man turned round and stared at old Reuben, who drew himself up, but said nothing.
"Wot d'you think of Grandturzel, Mus' Backfield?" someone asked waggishly.
"Naun," said Reuben; "I'm waiting."
He did not have to wait long. A few days later he was told that somebody wanted to see him, and in the parlour found his daughter Tilly.
He had seen Tilly at intervals through the years, but as he had never allowed himself to give her more than a withering glance, he had not a very definite idea of her. She was now nearly fifty-five, and more than inclined to stoutness—indeed, her comfortable figure was almost ludicrous compared with her haggard, anxious face, scored with lines and patched with shadows. Her grey hair was thin, and straggled on her forehead, her eyes had lost their brightness; yet there was nothing wild or terrible about her face, it was just domesticity in desperation.
"Fäather," she said as Reuben came into the room.
"Well?"
"Henry döan't know I've come," she murmured helplessly.