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The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was the crest of a footless bird and the motto: ” Wayte awhyle–wayte awhyle.”

“That’s the other end of the riddle,” Sophie whispered, when he saw her that evening. “Read her note. The English write beautiful notes.”

The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will appreciate his native land now he has come to it. Though you have said nothing we cannot, of course, look on him as a little stranger, and so I am sending him the old Lashmar christening mug. It has been with us since Gregory Lashmar, your great-grandmother’s brother–

George stared at his wife.

“Go on,” she twinkled, from the pillows.

–mother’s brother, sold his place to Walter’s family. We seem to have acquired some of your household gods at that time, but nothing survives except the mug and the old cradle, which I found in the potting-shed and am having put in order for you. I hope little George–Lashmar, he will be too, won’t he?–will live to see his grandchildren cut their teeth on his mug.

Affectionately yours,
ALICE CONANT.

P.S.–How quiet you’ve kept about it all!

“Well, I’m–“

“Don’t swear,” said Sophie. “Bad for the infant mind.”

“But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever said a word about the Lashmars?”

“You know the only time–to young Iggulden at Rocketts–when Iggulden died.”

“Your great-grandmother’s brother! She’s traced the whole connection–more than your Aunt Sydney could do. What does she mean about our keeping quiet?”

Sophie’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve thought that out too. We’ve got back at the English at last. Can’t you see that she thought that we thought my mother’s being a Lashmar was one of those things we’d expect the English to find out for themselves, and that’s impressed her?” She turned the mug in her white hands, and sighed happily. “‘Wayte awhyle–wayte awhyle.’ That’s not a bad motto, George. It’s been worth it.”

“But still I don’t quite see–“

“I shouldn’t wonder if they don’t think our coming here was part of a deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They’d understand that. And look how they’ve accepted us, all of them.”

“Are we so undesirable in ourselves?” George grunted.

“Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice our money. Can you see Marm Conant slapping him between the shoulders? Not by a jugful! The poor beast doesn’t exist!”

“Do you think it’s that then?” He looked toward the cot by the fire where the godling snorted.

“The minute I get well I shall find out from Mrs. Cloke what every Lashmar gives in doles (that’s nicer than tips) every time a Lashmite is born. I’ve done my duty thus far, but there’s much expected of me.”

Entered here Mrs. Cloke, and hung worshipping over the cot. They showed her the mug and her face shone. “Oh, now Lady Conant’s sent it, it’ll be all proper, ma’am, won’t it? ‘George’ of course he’d have to be, but seein’ what he is we was hopin’–all your people was hopin’–it ‘ud be ‘Lashmar’ too, and that’ud just round it out. A very ‘andsome mug quite unique, I should imagine. ‘Wayte awhyle–wayte awhyle.’ That’s true with the Lashmars, I’ve heard. Very slow to fill their houses, they are. Most like Master George won’t open ‘is nursery till he’s thirty.”

“Poor lamb!” cried Sophie. “But how did you know my folk were Lashmars?”

Mrs. Cloke thought deeply. “I’m sure I can’t quite say, ma’am, but I’ve a belief likely that it was something you may have let drop to young Iggulden when you was at Rocketts. That may have been what give us an inkling. An’ so it came out, one thing in the way o’ talk leading to another, and those American people at Veering Holler was very obligin’ with news, I’m told, ma’am.”

“Great Scott!” said George, under his breath. “And this is the simple peasant!”

“Yiss,” Mrs. Cloke went on. “An’ Cloke was only wonderin’ this afternoon–your pillow’s slipped my dear, you mustn’t lie that a-way–just for the sake o’ sayin’ something, whether you wouldn’t think well now of getting the Lashmar farms back, sir. They don’t rightly round off Sir Walter’s estate. They come caterin’ across us more. Cloke, ‘e ‘ud be glad to show you over any day.”