And Clara was a way of occupying his mind.
On the Saturday Walter Morel went to Sheffield.

He was a forlorn figure, looking rather as if nobody owned him.

Paul ran upstairs.
"My father's come," he said, kissing his mother.
"Has he ?" she answered wearily.
The old collier came rather frightened into the bedroom.
"How dun I find thee, lass ?" he said, going forward and kissing her in a hasty, timid fashion.
"Well, I'm middlin'," she replied.
"I see tha art," he said.

He stood looking down on her.

Then he wiped his eyes with his handkerchief.