"Not at all. They say as sometimes blind folk are unaccountable good at music."
Reuben did not answer; she knew by his attitude—chin in hand—that he was thinking.
That night he thought it out.
Munds of Starvecrow had had a brother who fiddled at fairs and weddings and earned, so Munds said, thirty pounds a year. He had also heard of others who made as good a thing of it. If Harry earned thirty pounds a year he would pay the wages of an extra farm-hand and also something towards his own keep. They must find out exactly how many of the old tunes he remembered, and get somebody musical to teach him new ones.
The idea prospered in Reuben's thoughts that night. The next morning he was full of it, and confided it to his mother and Naomi.
Naomi, a little paler and more wistful than of old, still spent an occasional day or two at Odiam. At first she had made these visits for Harry's sake, flattering herself that he was the better for her presence; then when even her faith began to fail, she still came, partly to help Mrs. Backfield, partly driven by such feelings as might drive an uneasy ghost to haunt the house of his tragedy. Reuben saw little of her, for his work claimed him, but he liked to feel she was there, helping his mother with work which it was difficult for her to carry through alone to Odiam's best advantage.
She heard of Reuben's plan with some shrinking.
"He—he wouldn't like it," she stammered after a pause.
"You'll never go sending our Harry to fiddle at fairs," said Mrs. Backfield.
"Why not? There's naun shameful in it. Munds's brother did it for twenty years. And think of the difference it'll mäake to us—thirty pound or so a year, instead of the dead loss of Harry's keep and the wages of an extra man beside. I tell you, mother, I wur fair sick about the farm till I thought of this."