floor on her knees, and surrounded by a formidable array of pails, and brushes, and mops. The place had a comfortless air, and there was no fire on the hearth.

“Late at work, Mrs Darvell, eh?” was the vicar’s greeting as he stood on the threshold.

Mrs Darvell got up quickly, and dropped her usual brisk courtesy, but her face looked dull and spiritless.

“I’m in too much of a muss to ask you in, sir,” she said, glancing round.

“Oh, never mind,” said the clergyman; “where’s Darvell? Isn’t he back from work yet?”

Mrs Darvell shrugged her shoulders, and made an expressive movement with her head in the direction of Danecross.

“I reckon he’s where he generally is now,” she answered moodily, “at the ‘Nag’s Head.’”

“Why, that’s something new, isn’t it? I always consider Darvell one of the steadiest men in my parish.”

Mrs Darvell looked up defiantly.

“Maybe it’s partly my fault,” she said; “but we’ve never had a minute’s comfort since the little lad went. And things get worse and worse. I don’t care no more to keep the place nice, and I ups and speaks sharp to Darvell, and he goes off to the ‘Nag’s Head.’”

The vicar nodded his head slowly, as though Darvell’s conduct was not quite incomprehensible under such circumstances, and Mrs Darvell continued in a lower tone:

“You know, sir, it wur because my man lifted his hand to Frank that the lad went off; and I don’t seem as how I can forget it. When I look at Darvell I keep on rememberin’ as how, if he’d bin more patient with the boy we should ha’ had him with us still. Darvell’s been a good man to me, but I can’t help speaking sharp to him; though maybe I’m sorry after I done it, for there’s only the two on us now, and we’ll have to worry along together.”

The vicar shook his head.

“Hard blows are bad things, Mrs Darvell, but hard words do quite as much mischief in their way. If your husband has driven Frank from home, does it mend matters for you to drive your husband to the public-house?”

“There’s truth in what you say, sir,” said Mrs Darvell, rubbing her arms with her apron; “but I don’t seem as if I cared to do any different now the boy’s gone. I’ve allers had a quick tongue from a gall, and Darvell, he must just take the consequences.”

“But suppose,” said the vicar, looking earnestly at her, “suppose that Frank were to come back to you safe and well, and Darvell were to promise never to be so harsh to him again, wouldn’t you try then to keep from saying sharp things?”

Mrs Darvell’s black eyes fixed themselves keenly on the vicar’s face.

“You’ve heard summat, sir?” she said, laying one damp red hand on his coat-sleeve. “Is the lad livin’? Just tell me that. Is he livin’?”

“Look there,” said the vicar.

He turned and pointed down the road, where, at the top of the hill leading up from Danecross, two figures were just visible. They came nearer and nearer. One was that of Darvell, broad-shouldered and heavily built, but the other one was small and slender, and had rough yellow hair.

Mrs Darvell was a woman of decisive action as well as of a quick tongue. One look was enough for her. She immediately took off her pattens, which had iron rings to them, and were not adapted for rapid movement, and placed them quickly and quite unconsciously in the vicar’s arms as he stood beside her.

“Bless you, sir!” she said.

Before he had realised his situation she had flown down the road, reached the two figures, and enveloped Frank in her embrace, Darvell standing by meanwhile with a broad smile on his fair and foolish countenance.

The neighbours gathered round the group, and all the dogs, and pigs, and chickens belonging to the settlement also drew near. Jack Gunn’s donkey looked over the hedge, his furry ears showing a pointed interest in the affair, and in the distance the vicar surveyed the scene from the cottage door, still holding Mrs Darvell’s pattens.

So Frank had got home again; and after all his wanderings he found that:

“From east to west
At home is best.”