standstill for the second time.

The cause was once more a person of the sex associated in his
mind with a bitter sense of injury. On this occasion the person
was only a miserable little child, crying over the fragments of a
broken jug.

Alban Morris looked at her with his grimly humorous smile. "So
you've broken a jug?" he remarked.

"And spilt father's beer," the child answered. Her frail little
body shook with terror. "Mother'll beat me when I go home," she
said.

"What does mother do when you bring the jug back safe and sound?"
Alban asked.

"Gives me bren-butter."

"Very well. Now listen to me. Mother shall give you bread and
butter again this time."

The child stared at him with the tears suspended in her eyes. He
went on talking to her as seriously as ever.

"You understand what I have just said to you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you got a pocket-handkerchief?"