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To-morrow, Miss Sally promised, Farmer Tossell should be as good as his word, and ride them over to Culvercoombe, where perhaps she might have a few more questions to put to them. For the present she and Mr. Chichester had enough to talk over. The interview had lasted a good hour, and Arthur Miles was glad to regain his liberty. The boy's manner had been polite enough, but constrained.
The road ran parallel, or roughly parallel, with the line of the cliffs, between low and wind-trimmed hedges, over which, from his perch beside Farmer Tossell, the boy looked down across a narrow slope of pasture to the sea. The fog had lifted.
There too the grey roof of the farmhouse crept little by little into sight; and so they came to a second gate and the rick-yard; and beyond the ricks was a whitewashed doorway, where a smiling elderly woman stood to welcome them. This was Mrs. Tossell, forewarned many minutes since by their singing.
But you can't get over to Culvercoombe to-night: to-morrow we'll see. . . . What's your name, by the way?" "Arthur Miles." "And your sister's?" "She's called Tilda; but she she isn't really " Farmer Tossell was not listening. "You'll have to sleep with us to-night. She ought to havin' six of her own, besides nine of my first family."
"Tossell and the children are about due. This man must not see them, of course. As you leave the stables you go up on the Inistow road and head 'em off keep 'em out of sight until the barouche is past the cross-roads and on the way to Fair Anchor."
Half-a-dozen children had collected on the beach and ran with them, cheering, up the hill, and before the cottage doorways three or four women, wives and widows, stood to watch the procession go by. "Wish 'ee well, Farmer Tossell!" cried one or two. "Sheep all right, I hope?" "Right as the bank, my dears!" called back the old patriarch, waving a whip he had caught from one of the farm-boys.
The lamps had immense reflectors above them, made of tin; but they shone like silver, and Tilda took them for silver. "That's cheerfuller!" shouted Farmer Tossell with a laugh of great contentment, and fell-to again. But as the light wavered and anon grew steady, Chrissy leaned over Tilda, touched Arthur Miles on the shoulder, and pointed to the wall opposite.
The Minister talked some science about it to Mother Tossell said as 'ow dogs 'adn't no souls but a 'eap of sympathy; and it ended by 'er 'avin' a good cry over me when she tucked me up for the night, an' sayin' as after all I might be a brand plucked from the burnin'. But it didn' take in Miss Chrissy, as I could tell from the look in 'er eyes."
Tossell pushed back her chair, and at her signal the feast ended. All left the table, and exchanged their benches for the settle or for chairs which they drew in a wide semicircle around the fireplace. Across the warm chord of this semicircle the sheep-dogs, stretched before the blaze, looked up lazily, and settled themselves to doze again.
But when, in Homer's words, they had put from them the desire of meat and drink, and had mounted and bidden Mrs. Tossell farewell, Parson Chichester reopened the conversation. "You believe the child's story, then?" "Why, of course; and so must you. Man alive, truth was written all over it!" "Yes, yes; I was using a fashion of speech. And the boy?" "Is Miles Chandon's son.
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