The moment before Rotha had gone into the dairy adjoining, and, coming back, she was handing a bowl of milk to her father. Sim clutched at the dish with nervous fingers.
The Reverend Nicholas walked with measured paces towards where he sat. Then he paused, and stood a yard or two behind Sim, whose eyes were still averted.
“I was told you had made your habitation on the hillside; a fitting home, no doubt, for one unfit to house with his fellows.”
Sim's hand trembled violently, and he set the bowl of milk on the floor beside him. Rotha was standing a yard or two apart, her breast heaving.
“Have you left it for good, pray?” There was the suspicion of a sneer in the tone with which the question was asked.
“Yes, he has left it for good,” said Rotha, catching her breath.
Sim had dropped his head on his hand, his elbow resting on his knee.
“More's the shame, perhaps; who knows but it may have been the best place for shame to hide in!”
Sim got up, and turning about, with his eyes still fixed on the ground, he hurried out of the house.
“You've driven him away again—do you know that?” said Rotha, regaining her voice, and looking fall into the vicar's face, her eyes aflame.