And Clara was a way of occupying his
mind.
On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield. He was a forlorn figure,
looking rather as if nobody owned him. Paul ran upstairs.
"My father's come," he said, kissing his mother.
"Has he?" she answered wearily.
The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom.
"How dun I find thee, lass?" he said, going forward and kissing her in a
hasty, timid fashion.
"Well, I'm middlin'," she replied.
"I see tha art," he said. He stood looking down on her. Then he wiped
his eyes with his handkerchief. Helpless, and as if nobody owned him, he
looked.
"Have you gone on all right?" asked the wife, rather wearily, as if it
were an effort to talk to him.
"Yis," he answered. "'Er's a bit behint-hand now and again, as yer might
expect."
"Does she have your dinner ready?" asked Mrs. Morel.
"Well, I've 'ad to shout at 'er once or twice," he said.
"And you MUST shout at her if she's not ready. She WILL leave things to
the last minute."
She gave him a few instructions.
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