glad. Wonderful
to see her so glad about anything; pathetic to see how, though all her
life had gone shipwrecked, she cheered her daughter to voyage. "She must
live near us in Essex," he thought rapidly. "I must give her a decent
allowance." "Well, well!" she said happily.

Ellen, feeling that things were being taken too much for granted, so far
as she was concerned, remarked suddenly, "And I think I'll take him."

Her eyes twinkled again at Yaverland. Wasn't there something very sweet
about her? She was, in effect, glad that he loved her daughter, because
now she had somebody who could laugh at this wonderful daughter!

"Let me marry her soon," he said.

She became doubtful. Her face contracted, as it had done when she had
said, "Let her bide; she's only a bairn."

"We must live in Essex," he said, to get her past the moment.

She became tragic.

"You'd like, I think, to come and live near us? If there isn't a house
at Roothing, there are plenty at Prittlebay. It would be good for you.
Obviously you can't stand this climate."

She looked up at him and said, the thought of them living together
having obviously presented itself to her for the first time, "Ah, well.
I hope you'll both be happy. Happier than I was." She receded back into
memory, and found first of all that ancient loyalty that she had always
practised in his life. "Not but what John Melville was a better man
than anyone has allowed."

They didn't say anything, but stood silent, giving the moment its
honour. Then Ellen stepped to her mother's side and said chidingly,
"Mother, what's wrong with your throat? You had a cold when you went
out, but nothing like this. It's terrible."

"It's nothing, dear. Take Mr. Yaverland--maircy me, what shall I call
you now?"

"Richard. That's what my mother calls me."

"Oh," she cried flutteringly, "it's like having a son again. No one
would think I was your mother, though, and you such a great thing!
Though Ronnie if he had lived would have been tall. As tall as you, I
wouldn't wonder," she said, with a tinge of jealousy. "Well, Ellen, take
Richard into the parlour and light the fire. I'll see to the supper."

"You will not," said Ellen, whom shyness was making deliriously surly.
It was like seeing her in a false beard. "R--Richard, will you take her
into the parlour yourself? She's got a terrible throat. Can you not
hear?"

"Ellen dear!"

"Away now!"

"I will not away. Ellen, don't worry. You don't kn