“I was sure of it,” Myrtle cried; “he—­he has talked against me, helped Caroline behind my back.”  She sobbed thinly, with her arm across her eyes.  “If I thought anything like that had occurred,” their father asserted, “Howat would—­” he paused, gazing heavily about at his family.

Howat’s ill temper arose.  “Yes—?” he demanded with a sharp inflection.  “Be still, Howat,” his mother said unexpectedly.  “This is all very regrettable, Gilbert,” she told her husband; “but it is an impossible subject of discussion.”  Gilbert Penny continued hotly, “He wouldn’t stay about here.”  She replied equably, “On the contrary, Howat shall be at Myrtle Forge until he himself chooses to leave.”

Howat was conscious of a surprise almost as moving as that pictured on his father’s countenance.  He had never heard Isabel Penny speak in that manner before; perhaps at last she would reveal what he had long speculated over—­her true, inner situation.  But he saw at once that he was to be again disappointed; the speaker was immediately enveloped in her detachment, the air that seemed almost one of a spectator in the Penny household.  She smiled deprecatingly.  How fine she was, Howat thought.  Gilbert Penny did not readily recover from his consternation; his surprise had notably increased to that.  His mouth was open, his face red and agitated.  “Before the children, Isabel,” he complained.  “Don’t know what to think.  Surely, surely, you don’t uphold Howat?  Outrageous conduct if it’s true.  And Myrtle so gentle, never hurt any one in her life.”  Myrtle circled the table, and found a place in his arms.  “If they had only told me,” she protested.  “If Caroline—­” He patted her flushed cheeks.  “Don’t give it another thought,” he directed; “a girl as pretty as you!  I’ll take you to London, where you’ll have a string of men, not Quakers, fine as peacocks.”  He bent his gaze on his son.

“Didn’t I tell you last evening that the cast metal has been light?” he demanded.  “Must I beg you to go to the Furnace?  Or perhaps that too conflicts with your mother’s fears for you.  There are stumps in the road.”  There was a whisper of skirts at the door, and Ludowika Winscombe stood smiling at them.  Myrtle turned her tear-swollen face upon her father’s shoulder.  Howat wondered if Ludowika had slept.  He endeavoured in vain to discover from her serene countenance something of her thoughts of what had occurred.  He had a sudden inspiration.

“I can go to Shadrach as soon as Adam saddles a horse,” he told his father.  “You were curious about the Furnace,” he added to Ludowika, masking the keen anxiety he felt at what was to follow; “it’s a sunny day, a pleasant ride.”  She answered without a trace of feeling other than a casual politeness.  “Thank you, since it will be my only opportunity.  I’ll have to change.”  She was gazing, Howat discovered, lightly at Isabel Penny.  “I must get the figures from Schwar,” his father said.  Before he left the room he moved to his wife’s side, rested his hand on her shoulder.  She looked up at him with a reassuring nod.  Howat saw that, whatever it might be, the bond between them was secure, stronger than any differences of prejudices or blood, more potent than time itself.  The group, the strain, about the table, broke up.