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 There was no answer, but the silence seemed satisfactory.

“And be sure you have yourself down here on Sunday, Alf, me son.” (“There’s the old woman come back!” said Mitchell.)

“An’ since the girl’s willin’ to have ye, and the ould woman’s willin’—there’s me hand on it, Alf, me boy. An’ God bless ye both.” (“The old man’s come now,” said Mitchell.)

“Come along,” said Mitchell, leading the way to the front of the tent.

“But I wouldn’t like to intrude on them. It’s hardly right, Mitchell, is it?”

“That’s all right,” said Mitchell. He tapped the tent pole.

“Come in,” said Alf. Alf was lying on his bunk as before, with his arms under his head. His face wore a cheerful, not to say happy, expression. There was no one else in the tent. I was never more surprised in my life.

“Have you got the paper, Alf?” said Mitchell.

“Yes. You’ll find it there at the foot of the bunk. There it is. Won’t you sit down, Mitchell?”

“Not to-night,” said Mitchell. “We brought you a bottle of ale. We’re just going to turn in.”

And we said “good-night”. “Well,” I said to Mitchell when we got inside, “what do you think of it?”

“I don’t think of it at all,” said Mitchell. “Do you mean to say you can’t see it now?”