There a pair of Michael's tall sea-boots stood in the chimney
corner, with a small pair of Tom's beside them; the old, well-remembered
crockery shone from the dresser; geraniums and begonias filled the window;
on a basket at the right of the fireside stood a small blue plate with gold
lettering upon it and a picture of Saltash Bridge in the middle. The legend
ran--_A present for a good girl_. It was a gift from her father to
Joan, on her tenth birthday. She picked it up, polished it, and asked for a
piece of paper to wrap it in, designing to carry the trifle away with her.
Every old nook and corner had been visited by the time that Uncle Chirgwin
returned. Then all sat down to eat and drink, and the taste of the tea went
still further to quicken Joan's memory.
Mrs. Tregenza gave them such information as suggested itself to her during
the progress of the meal. She was chiefly concerned about her son.
"Cruel 'ard worked he be, sure 'nough," she murmured. "'Tis contrary to
reason a boy can graw when he's made to sweat same as Tom be. An' short for
his age as 'tis. But butivul broad, an' 'mazin' strong, an' a fine sight to
see en ate his food. Then the Gosp'lers--well, they'm cold friends to the
young. A bwoy like him caan't feel religion in his blood same as grawed
folks."
"Small blame to en," said Joan promptly. "Let en go to church an' hear
proper holy ministers in black an' white gownds, an' proper words set down
in print, same as what I do now.
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