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“Yes, I guess it’s kind of wonderful for you both,” Ivor said kindly.

“Wonderful? Sure it is. Ther’s another thing. We been kind of in bad shape an’ were selling out our last block in Beacon that my man left to us. Oh, I’m not really thinkin’ of the stuff he’s bringing. No,” Rebecca went on, as though she feared the man might think that sheer selfishness was the substance of her delight. “But it helps. And Claire’s been a heap worried dealing with Bad Booker, but it don’t matter a thing now. We’ll take what he offers an’ be thankful.”

Ivor had turned to his horses. He unloosed the halter shank of the nearside beast and secured it to the tying ring on the log wall of the house, then he drew out a bundle of well-read newspapers and held them out to Rebecca.

“Here, take these,” he said in his quick, rough way. “I’ll leave my plugs right here. They’ll be glad to stand. I’m just going up to get a word with Claire. I’ll bring her right along down.”

The mother took the papers and threw them on to the table in the room behind her. Somehow her usual interest in them was overwhelmed.