Michael Tregenza was standing by the table. Upon
it appeared the basket from Drift, stored with cream, butter, eggs and
apples. Thomasin sat in the low chair by the fire with her apron over her
face, and that was always a bad sign, as Tom knew.
"What day be this, bwoy?" began Michael.
"The Lard's, faither."
"Ay: the Lard's awn day, though you've forgot it seemin'ly."
"No I abbun, faither."
"Doan't 'e answer me 'cept I tells you to. Where did these things come
from?"
"Drift, faither. Uncle Chirgwin bid me bring 'em with his respects."
"Did you tell en 'twas breakin' the commandments?"
"No, faither."
"Why didn't 'e? You knawed it yourself."
"Iss, faither; but uncle's a ancient man, an' I guessed he knawed so well
as me, an' I reckoned 'twould be sauce for such as me to say anything to a
auld, gray body like him."
"Sinners is all colors an' ages. Another time doan't you do what's wrong,
whether 'tis auld or young as tempts 'e to't. You'm a Luke Gosp'ler, an' it
edn' being a shinin' light 'tall to go wrong just because wan as did ought
to knaw wiser an' doan't, tells 'e to. Now you can lace on your boots, as
soon as you'm minded to, an' traapse up Drift with that theer basket an'
all in it. 'Twon't harm godless folks to wake 'em an' faace 'em with their
wrongdoing. An' I lay you'll remember another time."
Tom, knowing that words would be utterly wasted, went back to his attic,
dressed, and started.
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