``Come in, Master Tom. I knew you would come back one of
these days.''
Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring
uncomprehendingly at the other.
``Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper,'' said the
old man with quavering eagerness. Stoner's legs gave way
from very weariness, and he sank inertly into the arm-chair
that had been pushed up to him. In another minute he was
devouring the cold meat, cheese, and bread, that had been
placed on the table at his side.
``You'm little changed these four years,'' went on the old
man, in a voice that sounded to Stoner as something in a
dream, far away and inconsequent; ``but you'll find us a
deal changed, you will. There's no one about the place same
as when you left; nought but me and your old Aunt. I'll go
and tell her that you'm come; she won't be seeing you, but
she'll let you stay right enough. She always did say if you
was to come back you should stay, but she'd never set eyes
on you or speak to you again.''
The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of
Stoner and then hobbled away down a long passage. The
drizzle of rain had changed to a furious lashing downpour,
which beat violently against door and windows.
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