They've
tawld me a many good things; an' fust as I must be humbler in my bearin'.
Wance I said I'd forgive faither, an' I thot 'twas a fair thing to say; now
I awnly wants en to forgive me an' let me come to my time wi' no man's
anger hot agin me. If I could win just a peep o' home. I may never see it
no more arter, 'cause things might fall out bad wi' me."
"'Tis nachrul as you harp on it; an', blame me, if I sees why you shouldn'
go down-long. Us might ride in the cart an' no harm done."
"Ay, do 'e come, theer's a dear sawl. Just to look upon the plaace--"
"As for that, if us goes, us must see the matter through an' give your
faither the chance to do what's right by 'e."
"He'll not change; but still I'd have en hear me tell I'm in sorrer for the
ill I brot 'pon his name."
"Ay, facks! 'Tis a wise word an' a right. Us'll go this very arternoon. You
get a odd pound or so o' scald cream, an' I'll see to a basket o' fruit wi'
some o' they scoured necterns, as ban't no good for sellin', but eats so
well as t'others. Iss, we'll go so soon as dinner be swallowed. Wishes
doan't run in a body's head for nothin'."
Uncle Chirgwin's old market-cart, with the gray horse and the squeaking
wheel, rattled off to Newlyn some two hours later, and the ordeal, longed
for at a distance, towered tremendous and less beautiful at nearer
approach. When they started, Joan had hoped that her father might be at
home; as they neared Newlyn she felt a growing relief in the reflection
that his presence ashore was exceedingly improbable.
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