ce of habit
took him to the workshop, where, every Sunday afternoon, he was used to
going after dinner to see that everything was in order, and to-day also
he opened the window, put away a tool which the men had left about,
examined the Saturday's work....

Mrs Griffith and George, stiff and ill at ease in his clumsy Sunday
clothes, went on with their dinner.

'D'you think the vicar knew?' he asked as soon as the father had closed
the door.

'I don't think he'd have asked if he had. Mrs Gray might, but he's too
simple--unless she put him up to it.'

'I thought I should never get round with the plate,' said George. Mr
Griffith, being a carpenter, which is respectable and well-to-do, which
is honourable, had been made churchwarden, and part of his duty was to
take round the offertory plate. This duty George performed in his
father's occasional absences, as when a coffin was very urgently
required.

'I wasn't going to let them get anything out of me,' said Mrs Griffith,
defiantly.

All through the service a number of eyes had been fixed on them, eager
to catch some sign of emotion, full of horrible curiosity to know what
the Griffiths felt and thought; but Mrs Griffith had been inscrutable.

III

Next day the Griffiths lay in wait for the postman; George sat by the
parlour window, peeping through the muslin curtains.

'Fanning's just coming up the street,' he said at last. Until the post
had come old Griffith could not work; in the courtyard at the back was
heard the sound of hammering.

There was a rat-tat at the door, the sound of a letter falling on the
mat, and Fanning the postman passed on. George leaned back quickly so
that he might not see him. Mr Griffith fetched the letter, opened it
with trembling hands.... He gave a little gasp of relief.

'She's got a situation in London.'

'Is that all she says?' asked Mrs Griffith. 'Give me the letter,' and
she almost tore it from her husband's hand.

She read it through and uttered a little ejaculation of contempt--almost
of triumph. 'You don't mean to say you believe that?' she cried.

'Let's look, mother,' said George. He read the letter and he too gave a
snort of contempt.

'She says she's got a situation,' repeated Mrs Griffith, with a sneer at
her husband, 'and we're not to be angry or anxious, and she's quite
happy--and we can write to Charing Cross Post Office. I know what sort
of a situation she's got.'

Mr Griffith looked from his wife to his