Remember that I was a younger son--that I was swarthy--that I was a
cripple--and that my mother--had Frank. It was as though my heart
must leap from my breast towards that child. Not a word had she
spoken, but she had said what the little maimed 'fighting Hal'
yearned to hear, and without _knowing_ that he yearned.
I restrained myself, and did not yield to the feeling that impelled
me to throw my arms round her neck in an ecstasy of wonder and
delight. After a second or two she again threw back her head to gaze
at the golden cloud.
'Look!' said she, suddenly clapping her hands, 'it's over both of us
now.'
'What is it?' I said.
'The Dukkeripen,' she said, 'the Golden Hand. Sinfi and Rhona both
say the Golden Hand brings luck: what _is_ luck?'
I looked up at the little cloud which to me seemed more like a golden
feather than a golden hand. But I soon bent my eyes down again to
look at her.
While I stood looking at her, the tall figure of a man came out of
the church. This was Tom Wynne. Besides being the organist of Raxton
'New Church,' Tom was also (for a few extra shillings a week)
custodian of the 'Old Church,' this deserted pile within whose
precincts we now were.
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