Because it was Tarboe, the fifteen years younger brother of that Almeric Tarboe who had died a month after his own girl had left this world, his soul was fighting--fighting.
As the smoke of Carnac's pipe came curling into the air, Denzil put on his coat, and laid the hoe and rake on his shoulder.
"Yes, even when it's hard going we still have to march on--name of God, yes!" he repeated, and he looked at Carnac quizzically.
"Where are you going?
Don't you want to talk to me ?" "I'm going home, m'sieu'.

If you'll come with me I'll give you a drink of hard cider, the best was ever made." "I'll come.

Denzil, I've never been in your little house.

That's strange, when I've known you so many years." "It's not too late to mend, m'sieu'.

There ain't much in it, but it's all I need." Carnac stepped with Denzil towards the little house, just in front of three pine-trees on the hill, and behind Junia's home.
"I always lock my door--always," said Denzil as he turned a key and opened the door.
They entered into the cool shade of a living-room.