Three miles to the left of the travellers, along the road they had notfollowed, rose an old house with mullioned windows of Ham-hill stone, andchimneys of lavish solidity. It stood at the top of a slope besideKing's-Hintock village-street; and immediately in front of it grew alarge sycamore-tree, whose bared roots formed a convenient staircase fromthe road below to the front door of the dwelling. Its situation gave thehouse what little distinctive name it possessed, namely, 'The Knap.' Someforty yards off a brook dribbled past, which, for its size, made a greatdeal of noise. At the back was a dairy barton, accessible for vehiclesand live-stock by a side 'drong.' Thus much only of the character of thehomestead could be divined out of doors at this shady evening-time.

But within there was plenty of light to see by, as plenty was construedat Hintock. Beside a Tudor fireplace, whose moulded four-centred archwas nearly hidden by a figured blue-cloth blower, were seated twowomen--mother and daughter--Mrs. Hall, and Sarah, or Sally; for this wasa part of the world where the latter modification had not as yet beeneffaced as a vulgarity by the march of intellect. The owner of the namewas the young woman by whose means Mr. Darton proposed to put an end tohis bachelor condition on the approaching day.

The mother's bereavement had been so long ago as not to leave much markof its occurrence upon her now, either in face or clothes. She hadresumed the mob-cap of her early married life, enlivening its whitenessby a few rose-du-Barry ribbons. Sally required no such aids to pinkness.Roseate good-nature lit up her gaze; her features showed curves ofdecision and judgment; and she might have been regarded without muchmistake as a warm-hearted, quick-spirited, handsome girl.

She did most of the talking, her mother listening with a half-absent air,as she picked up fragments of red-hot wood ember with the tongs, andpiled them upon the brands. But the number of speeches that passed wasvery small in proportion to the meanings exchanged. Long experiencetogether often enabled them to see the course of thought in each other'sminds without a word being spoken. Behind them, in the centre of theroom, the table was spread for supper, certain whiffs of air laden withfat vapours, which ever and anon entered from the kitchen, denoting itspreparation there.

'The new gown he was going to send you stays about on the way likehimself,' Sally's mother was saying.

'Yes, not finished, I daresay,' cried Sally independently. 'Lord, Ishouldn't be amazed if it didn't come at all! Young men make such kindpromises when they are near you, and forget 'em when they go away. Buthe doesn't intend it as a wedding-gown--he gives it to me merely as agown to wear when I like--a travelling-dress is what it would be calledby some. Come rathe or come late it don't much matter, as I have a dressof my own to fall back upon. But what time is it?'

She went to the family clock and opened the glass, for the hour was nototherwise discernible by night, and indeed at all times was rather athing to be investigated than beheld, so much more wall than window wasthere in the apartment. 'It is nearly eight,' said she.

'Eight o'clock, and neither dress nor man,' said Mrs. Hall.

'Mother, if you think to tantalize me by talking like that, you are muchmistaken! Let him be as late as he will--or stay away altogether--Idon't care,' said Sally. But a tender, minute quaver in the negationshowed that there was something forced in that statement.

Mrs. Hall perceived it, and drily observed that she was not so sure aboutSally not caring. 'But perhaps you don't care so much as I do, afterall,' she said. 'For I see what you don't, that it is a good andflourishing match for you; a very honourable offer in Mr. Darton. And Ithink I see a kind husband in him. So pray God 'twill go smooth, andwind up well.'

Sally would not listen to misgivings. Of course it would go smoothly,she asserted. 'How you are up and down, mother!' she went on. 'At thismoment, whatever hinders him, we are not so anxious to see him as he isto be here, and his thought runs on before him, and settles down upon uslike the star in the east. Hark!' she exclaimed, with a breath ofrelief, her eyes sparkling. 'I heard something. Yes--here they are!'

The next moment her mother's slower ear also distinguished the familiarreverberation occasioned by footsteps clambering up the roots of thesycamore.

'Yes it sounds like them at last,' she said. 'Well, it is not so verylate after all, considering the distance.'

The footfall ceased, and they arose, expecting a knock. They began tothink it might have been, after all, some neighbouring villager underBacchic influence, giving the centre of the road a wide berth, when theirdoubts were dispelled by the new-comer's entry into the passage. Thedoor of the room was gently opened, and there appeared, not the pair oftravellers with whom we have already made acquaintance, but a pale-facedman in the garb of extreme poverty--almost in rags.

'O, it's a tramp--gracious me!' said Sally, starting back.

His cheeks and eye-orbits were deep concaves--rather, it might be, fromnatural weakness of constitution than irregular living, though there wereindications that he had led no careful life. He gazed at the two womenfixedly for a moment: then with an abashed, humiliated demeanour, droppedhis glance to the floor, and sank into a chair without uttering a word.

Sally was in advance of her mother, who had remained standing by thefire. She now tried to discern the visitor across the candles.

'Why--mother,' said Sally faintly, turning back to Mrs. Hall. 'It isPhil, from Australia!'

Mrs. Hall started, and grew pale, and a fit of coughing seized the manwith the ragged clothes. 'To come home like this!' she said. 'O,Philip--are you ill?'

'No, no, mother,' replied he impatiently, as soon as he could speak.

'But for God's sake how do you come here--and just now too?'

'Well, I am here,' said the man. 'How it is I hardly know. I've comehome, mother, because I was driven to it. Things were against me outthere, and went from bad to worse.'

'Then why didn't you let us know?--you've not writ a line for the lasttwo or three years.'

The son admitted sadly that he had not. He said that he had hoped andthought he might fetch up again, and be able to send good news. Then hehad been obliged to abandon that hope, and had finally come home fromsheer necessity--previously to making a new start. 'Yes, things are verybad with me,' he repeated, perceiving their commiserating glances at hisclothes.

They brought him nearer the fire, took his hat from his thin hand, whichwas so small and smooth as to show that his attempts to fetch up againhad not been in a manual direction. His mother resumed her inquiries,and dubiously asked if he had chosen to come that particular night forany special reason.

For no reason, he told her. His arrival had been quite at random. ThenPhilip Hall looked round the room, and saw for the first time that thetable was laid somewhat luxuriously, and for a larger number thanthemselves; and that an air of festivity pervaded their dress. He askedquickly what was going on.

'Sally is going to be married in a day or two,' replied the mother; andshe explained how Mr. Darton, Sally's intended husband, was coming therethat night with the groomsman, Mr. Johns, and other details. 'We thoughtit must be their step when we heard you,' said Mrs. Hall.

The needy wanderer looked again on the floor. 'I see--I see,' hemurmured. 'Why, indeed, should I have come to-night? Such folk as I arenot wanted here at these times, naturally. And I have no businesshere--spoiling other people's happiness.'

'Phil,' said his mother, with a tear in her eye, but with a thinness oflip and severity of manner which were presumably not more than pastevents justified; 'since you speak like that to me, I'll speak honestlyto you. For these three years you have taken no thought for us. Youleft home with a good supply of money, and strength and education, andyou ought to have made good use of it all. But you come back like abeggar; and that you come in a very awkward time for us cannot be denied.Your return to-night may do us much harm. But mind--you are welcome tothis home as long as it is mine. I don't wish to turn you adrift. Wewill make the best of a bad job; and I hope you are not seriously ill?'

'O no. I have only this infernal cough.'

She looked at him anxiously. 'I think you had better go to bed at once,'she said.

'Well--I shall be out of the way there,' said the son wearily. 'Havingruined myself, don't let me ruin you by being seen in these togs, forHeaven's sake. Who do you say Sally is going to be married to--a FarmerDarton?'

'Yes--a gentleman-farmer--quite a wealthy man. Far better in stationthan she could have expected. It is a good thing, altogether.'

'Well done, little Sal!' said her brother, brightening and looking up ather with a smile. 'I ought to have written; but perhaps I have thoughtof you all the more. But let me get out of sight. I would rather go andjump into the river than be seen here. But have you anything I candrink? I am confoundedly thirsty with my long tramp.'

'Yes, yes, we will bring something upstairs to you,' said Sally, withgrief in her face.

'Ay, that will do nicely. But, Sally and mother--' He stopped, and theywaited. 'Mother, I have not told you all,' he resumed slowly, stilllooking on the floor between his knees. 'Sad as what you see of me is,there's worse behind.'

His mother gazed upon him in grieved suspense, and Sally went and leantupon the bureau, listening for every sound, and sighing. Suddenly sheturned round, saying, 'Let them come, I don't care! Philip, tell theworst, and take your time.'

'Well, then,' said the unhappy Phil, 'I am not the only one in this mess.Would to Heaven I were! But--'

'O, Phil!'

'I have a wife as destitute as I.'

'A wife?' said his mother.

'Unhappily!'

'A wife! Yes, that is the way with sons!'

'And besides--' said he.

'Besides! O, Philip, surely--'

'I have two little children.'

'Wife and children!' whispered Mrs. Hall, sinking down confounded.

'Poor little things!' said Sally involuntarily.

His mother turned again to him. 'I suppose these helpless beings areleft in Australia?'

'No. They are in England.'

'Well, I can only hope you've left them in a respectable place.'

'I have not left them at all. They are here--within a few yards of us.In short, they are in the stable.'

'Where?'

'In the stable. I did not like to bring them indoors till I had seenyou, mother, and broken the bad news a bit to you. They were very tired,and are resting out there on some straw.'

Mrs. Hall's fortitude visibly broke down. She had been brought up notwithout refinement, and was even more moved by such a collapse of genteelaims as this than a substantial dairyman's widow would in ordinary havebeen moved. 'Well, it must be borne,' she said, in a low voice, with herhands tightly joined. 'A starving son, a starving wife, starvingchildren! Let it be. But why is this come to us now, to-day, to-night?Could no other misfortune happen to helpless women than this, which willquite upset my poor girl's chance of a happy life? Why have you done usthis wrong, Philip? What respectable man will come here, and marry open-eyed into a family of vagabonds?'

'Nonsense, mother!' said Sally vehemently, while her face flushed.'Charley isn't the man to desert me. But if he should be, and won'tmarry me because Phil's come, let him go and marry elsewhere. I won't beashamed of my own flesh and blood for any man in England--not I!' Andthen Sally turned away and burst into tears.

'Wait till you are twenty years older and you will tell a differenttale,' replied her mother.

The son stood up. 'Mother,' he said bitterly, 'as I have come, so I willgo. All I ask of you is that you will allow me and mine to lie in yourstable to-night. I give you my word that we'll be gone by break of day,and trouble you no further!'

Mrs. Hall, the mother, changed at that. 'O no,' she answered hastily;'never shall it be said that I sent any of my own family from my door.Bring 'em in, Philip, or take me out to them.'

'We will put 'em all into the large bedroom,' said Sally, brightening,'and make up a large fire. Let's go and help them in, and call Rebekah.'(Rebekah was the woman who assisted at the dairy and housework; she livedin a cottage hard by with her husband, who attended to the cows.)

Sally went to fetch a lantern from the back-kitchen, but her brothersaid, 'You won't want a light. I lit the lantern that was hangingthere.'

'What must we call your wife?' asked Mrs. Hall.

'Helena,' said Philip.

With shawls over their heads they proceeded towards the back door.

'One minute before you go,' interrupted Philip. 'I--I haven't confessedall.'

'Then Heaven help us!' said Mrs. Hall, pushing to the door and claspingher hands in calm despair.

'We passed through Evershead as we came,' he continued, 'and I justlooked in at the "Sow-and-Acorn" to see if old Mike still kept on thereas usual. The carrier had come in from Sherton Abbas at that moment, andguessing that I was bound for this place--for I think he knew me--heasked me to bring on a dressmaker's parcel for Sally that was marked"immediate." My wife had walked on with the children. 'Twas a flimsyparcel, and the paper was torn, and I found on looking at it that it wasa thick warm gown. I didn't wish you to see poor Helena in a shabbystate. I was ashamed that you should--'twas not what she was born to. Iuntied the parcel in the road, took it on to her where she was waiting inthe Lower Barn, and told her I had managed to get it for her, and thatshe was to ask no question. She, poor thing, must have supposed Iobtained it on trust, through having reached a place where I was known,for she put it on gladly enough. She has it on now. Sally has othergowns, I daresay.'

Sally looked at her mother, speechless.

'You have others, I daresay!' repeated Phil, with a sick man'simpatience. 'I thought to myself, "Better Sally cry than Helena freeze."Well, is the dress of great consequence? 'Twas nothing very ornamental,as far as I could see.'

'No--no; not of consequence,' returned Sally sadly, adding in a gentlevoice, 'You will not mind if I lend her another instead of that one, willyou?'

Philip's agitation at the confession had brought on another attack of thecough, which seemed to shake him to pieces. He was so obviously unfit tosit in a chair that they helped him upstairs at once; and having hastilygiven him a cordial and kindled the bedroom fire, they descended to fetchtheir unhappy new relations.