“Oh, she’s not strong enough. She’s very young, father.”
“And what are you, eh?”
“Well, I’m a man, at least,” said Llewellyn.
“A man!” Mr. Fenton snorted sarcastically. There was room for sarcasm, certainly, only he saw it in the wrong place.
They had passed the church and were driving up to the Vicarage gate. Mr. Lewis was standing with Isoline in the garden, while a man put up some bee-hives on a wooden trestle. That suggestiveness which surrounds a wounded figure drew his eyes to the limp-looking bundle Llewellyn held so carefully. He came forward quickly and opened the gate.
“There has been an accident,” said Mr. Fenton. “It’s your boy—the boy that works here.”
“He’s badly burnt,” explained Llewellyn.
Isoline had gone into the house when she had seen who the arrivals were.
“Howell, my poor lad!” exclaimed the Vicar, coming up close to the cart. “Is he conscious?”
Howlie’s voice muttered something indistinguishable.