Appearing now, indoors, by the light of the candle, his stalwart
healthiness was a sight to see. His beard was close and knotted
as that of a chiselled Hercules; his shirt sleeves were partly
rolled up, his waistcoat unbuttoned; the difference in hue between
the snowy linen and the ruddy arms and face contrasting like the
white of an egg and its yolk. Mrs. Smith, on hearing them enter,
advanced from the pantry.

Mrs. Smith was a matron whose countenance addressed itself to the
mind rather than to the eye, though not exclusively. She retained
her personal freshness even now, in the prosy afternoon-time of
her life; but what her features were primarily indicative of was a
sound common sense behind them; as a whole, appearing to carry
with them a sort of argumentative commentary on the world in
general.

The details of the accident were then rehearsed by Stephen's
father, in the dramatic manner also common to Martin Cannister,
other individuals of the neighbourhood, and the rural world
generally. Mrs. Smith threw in her sentiments between the acts,
as Coryphaeus of the tragedy, to make the description complete.
The story at last came to an end, as the longest will, and Stephen
directed the conversation into another channel.

'Well, mother, they know everything about me now,' he said
quietly.

'Well done!' replied his father; 'now my mind's at peace.'

'I blame myself--I never shall forgive myself--for not telling