Emma withdrew to her table sullenly.

“It’s n?wt,” said the old man, vainly protesting. “It’s n?wt at a’. Get on wi’ what you’re donin’.”

“I’m afraid ’e’s burnt ’is ’and,” said the black-browed woman, speaking of him with a kind of hard pity, as if he were a cumbersome child. Bertha took the old man’s hand and looked at it, making a quick tut-tutting noise of impatience.

“Emma, get that zinc ointment—and some white rag,” she commanded sharply. The younger sister put down her loaf with the knife in it, and went. To a sensitive observer, this obedience was more intolerable than the most hateful discord. The dark woman bent over the baby and made silent, gentle movements of motherliness to it. The little one smiled and moved on her lap. It continued to move and twist.

“I believe this child’s hungry,” she said. “How long is it since he had anything?”

“Just afore dinner,” said Emma dully.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Bertha. “You needn’t starve the child now you’ve got it. Once every two hours it ought to be fed, as I’ve told you; and now it’s three. Take him, poor little mite—I’ll cut the bread.” She bent and looked at the bonny boby. She could not help herself: she smiled, and pressed its cheek with her finger, and nodded to it, making little noises. Then she turned and took the loaf from her sister. The woman rose and gave the child to its mother. Emma bent over the little sucking mite. She hated it when she looked at it, and saw it as a symbol, but when she felt it , her love was like fire in her blood.

“I should think ’e canna be comin’,” said the father uneasily, looking up at the clock.

“Nonsense, father—the clock’s fast! It ’s but half-past four! Don’t foget!” Bertha continued to cut the bread and butter.

“Open a tin of pears,” she said to the woman, in a much milder tone. Then she went into the next room. As soon as she was gone, the old man said again: “I should ha’e thought he’d ’a’ been’ ere by now, if he means comin’.”

Emma, engrossed, did not answer. The father had ceased to consider her, since she had become humbled.

“’E’ll come—’e’ll come!” assured the stranger.

A few minutes later Bertha hurried into the kitchen, taking off her apron. The dog barked furiously. She opened the door, commanded the dog to silence, and said: “He will be quiet now, Mr. Kendal.”

“Thank you,” said a sonorous voice, and there was the sound of a bicycle being propped against a wall. A clergyman entered, a big-boned, thin, ugly man of nervous manner. He went straight to the father.

“Ah—how are you—” he asked musically, peering down on the great frame of the miner, ruined by locomotor ataxy.

His voice was full of gentleness, but he seemed as if he could not see distinctly, could not get things clear.