“That’ll be it. We’ll be looking soon for those boys of ourn,” he said to his wife.
She smiled gladly at him, but remained pensive. Then she asked,—
“Was he alone, Amos?”
“Ay. He’d his pack on his back, too, so I doubt he’d come from the station. He’d his back to Penshurst and his face towards home. He touched his cap at me, friendly, and I twirled my whip to him, friendly, too.”
“I’m glad of that,” his wife murmured.
Amos shrugged.
“A man’s glad to welcome his son-in-law back from the wars,” he said ironically as he turned to go.
Mrs. Pennistan and I strolled out towards the road.
“He’s dead against Rawdon; always was,” she said in a distressed tone. “I was for making up, and making the best of it, but Pennistan isn’t that sort. He’d sooner have life unbearable than go a tittle against his prejudices. After all, Rawdon’s married to Ruth, and the father of our grandchildren, and there’s no going against that. He’s an unaccountable hard man, my man, when he chooses. I couldn’t never do nothing with him, and Nancy she’s the same.”
“And Mrs. Westmacott?” I asked.