It was Sunday morning, and father, he was working away at his
bench--not that it ever seemed to make him any happier to work, only
he was more miserable if he didn't,--and I had crept up to the
churchyard to lean against the wall and listen to the psalms being
sung inside, when, looking down the village street, I saw Barber's
shop open, and out came young Barber himself. Oh, if God forgets any
one in His mercy, it will be him and his like!

He come out all smart and neat in his new black, and he was
whistling a hymn tune softly. Our house was betwixt Barber's shop
and the church, not a stone's-throw off, anyway; and I prayed to God
that Barber would turn the other way and not come by our house,
where father he was sitting at his bench with the door open.

But he did turn, and come walking towards me; and I had laid my
crutches on the ground, and I stooped to pick them up to go home--to
stop words; for what were words, and she in her grave?--when I heard
young Barber's voice, and I looked over the wall, and see he had
stopped, in his madness and folly and the wickedness of his heart,
right opposite the house he had brought shame to, and he was
speaking to father through the door.

I couldn't hear what he said, but he seemed to expect an answer,
and, when none came, he called out a little louder, 'Oh, well,
you've no call to hold your head so high, anyhow!' And for the way
he said it I could have killed him myself, but for having been
brought up to know that two wrongs don't make a right, and
'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord; I will repay.'