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Then there was a rousing knock at the door, and Alice sprang up, as it were, guiltily. Recovering herself with characteristic swiftness, she went to the window and spied delicately out.

“It’s Mrs Bratt,” she whispered. “I’ll go.”

“Shall I go?” Herbert asked.

“No–I’ll go,” said Alice.

And she went–apron and all.

Herbert overheard the conversation.

“Oh!” Exclamation of feigned surprise from Mrs Bratt.

“Yes?” In tones of a politeness almost excessive.

“Is Mr Herbert meaning to come to our house to-night? That there bedroom’s all ready.”

“I don’t think so,” said Alice. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, miss–“

“I’m Mrs Herbert Roden,” said Alice, primly.

“Oh! I beg pardon, miss–Mrs, that is–I’m sure. I didn’t know–“

“No,” said Alice. “The wedding was this morning.”

“I’m sure I wish you both much happiness, you and Mr Herbert,” said Mrs Bratt, heartily. “If I had but known–“

“Thank you,” said Alice, “I’ll tell my husband.”

And she shut the door on the entire world.

II

One evening, after tea, by gaslight, Herbert was reading the newspaper in the parlour at Paddock Place, when he heard a fumbling with keys at the front door. The rain was pouring down heavily outside. He hesitated a moment. He was a brave man, but he hesitated a moment, for he had sins on his soul, and he knew in a flash who was the fumbler at the front door. Then he ran into the lobby, and at the same instant the door opened and his long-lost uncle stood before him, a living shower-bath, of which the tap could not be turned off.

“Well, uncle,” he stammered, “how are–“

“Nay, my lad,” Si stopped him, refusing his hand. “I’m too wet to touch. Get along into th’ back kitchen. If I mun make a pool I’ll make it there. So thou’s taken possession o’ my house!”

“Yes, uncle. You see–“

They were now in the back kitchen, or scullery, where a bright fire was burning in a small range and a great kettle of water singing over it.

“Run and get us a blanket, lad,” said Si, stopping Herbert again, and turning up the gas.

“A blanket?”

“Ay, lad! A blanket. Art struck?”

When Herbert returned with the blanket Silas was spilling mustard out of the mustard tin into a large zinc receptacle which he had removed from the slop-stone to a convenient place on the floor in front of the fire. Silas then poured the boiling water from the kettle into the receptacle, and tested the temperature with his finger.

“Blazes!” he exclaimed, shaking his finger. “Fetch us the whisky, lad.”

When Herbert returned a second time, Uncle Silas was sitting on a chair wearing merely the immense blanket, which fell gracefully in rich folds around him to the floor. From sundry escaping jets of steam Herbert was able to judge that the zinc bath lay concealed somewhere within the blanket. Si’s clothes were piled on the deal table.

“I hanna’ gotten my feet in yet,” said Si. “They’re resting on th’ edge. But I’ll get ’em in in a minute. Oh! Blazes! Here! Mix us a glass o’ that, hot. And then get out that clothes-horse and hang my duds on it nigh th’ fire.”

Herbert obeyed, as if in a dream.

“I canna do wi’ another heavy cowd [cold] at my time o’ life, and there’s only one way for to stop it. There! That’ll do, lad. Let’s have a look at thee.”

Herbert perched himself on a corner of the table. The vivacity of Silas astounded him.

“Thou looks older, nephew,” said Silas, sipping at the whisky, and smacking his lips grimly.

“Do I? Well, you look younger, uncle, anyhow. You’ve shaved your beard off, for one thing.”

“Yes, and a pretty cold it give me, too! I’d carried that beard for twenty year.”

“Then why did you cut it off?”

“Because I had to, lad. But never mind that. So thou’st taken possession o’ my house?”

“It isn’t your house any longer, uncle,” said Herbert, determined to get the worst over at once.

“Not my house any longer! Us’ll see whether it inna’ my house any longer.”