"Would I?" she replied. "No fear! He gave father ten years of sorrow an' brought him to 'is grave. I loved my dad too well to forgive his murderer that easy. He's taken no notice of us all this time, an' while he's been makin' money an' courtin' a rich girl we might all have been in t' workhouse for ought he knew or cared. And then he's to come home, an' it's to be all right straight off, an' we must have t' best counterpane on t' bed, an' t' china tea-service out 'at were my grandmother's, an' we must go slobberin' round his neck the minute he puts his head in at t' door. Bah! it makes me sick. You've only got to be a prodigal, as I say, an' then you can have t' fatted calf killed for you."
"Now look you here, lass," said Farmer Goodenough kindly, "I've said nought so far, 'cos it does you good to talk. It's poor policy to bung t' kettle up when t' water's boilin', but I think ye've let off enough steam now to keep from burstin', so we'll just look into this matter, an' see what we can make on 't."
"Oh, I know you of old, Reuben Goodenough," replied the girl; "you'd be every bit as bad as my mother."
"You'll be every bit as bad yerself, lass, when ye've as much sense; but now just let me ask you a question or two. T' Owd Book says, if I remember right, when t' father came out to talk to t' sulky brother: 'It was meet to make merry an' be glad,' an' I take that to mean 'at it was t' right an' proper thing to do. Now why were they glad, think ye?"
"Just because he'd come home," replied Jane bitterly, "an' his brother, like me, had never gone away. I don't wonder 'at he was sulky. But that prodigal hadn't killed his father."
"Well, now, Jane," replied the farmer, "'cordin' to my way o' sizin' that tale up, you've got hold of a wrong notion altogether. I don't know what t' parsons 'ud make of it, but it seems to me 'at t' owd man was glad, not so much because t' lad had come back, but because he'd come to hisself, an' that's a very deal different thing."
"I don't see no difference," said Jane.
"You will do if you think a minute, lass. Suppose a lad loses his senses an' runs away from 'ome, an' comes back one fine day as mad as ever. There'll be as much sorrow as joy, won't there, think ye, in that 'ome? But suppose while he's away his reason comes back to 'im, an' he gets cured, an' as soon as he's cured he says: 'I must go 'ome to t' owd folks,' an' he goes, an' they see 'at he's in his right mind, don't you think they'll make merry an' be glad? Wouldn't you?"
"Our Joe didn't lose his senses," the girl replied sullenly; "he was as clear-headed then as he is now. It's a different thing when they're mad."
"Nay, lass," he replied, "but unless I'm sadly mista'en all sin is a sort o' madness. You said just now 'at Joe went wrong. Now where did he go wrong—I mean what part of 'im?"