保罗长得像母亲，身材纤弱，个子也不高。他的金黄的头发渐渐变红，后来又变成深棕色。眼睛是灰色的，他是个脸色苍白而又文静的孩子。那双眼睛流露出好象在倾听着什么的神情，下唇丰满，往下撤着。

    一般说来，他在这个年龄的孩子中显得比较早熟。他对别人的感情，尤其是对母亲的感情相当敏感。她有什么不顺心的事，他一清二楚，而且为此显得心神不定，他的内心似乎总是在关心她。

    随着年龄的增长，他变得强壮了一些。威廉与他年龄相差太大，不能与他做伴，因此，这个小男孩一开始几乎完全属于安妮。她是个淘气的女孩，母亲叫她“顽皮鬼”。不过她特别喜欢弟弟，因此保罗一步不离地踉着她，一起玩游戏。她和河川区那些野猫似的孩子疯一般地玩游戏，保罗总是跟随在她身边。由于他太小还不能参加这些活动，只和她分享游戏的快乐。他很安静，也不引人注目，但姐姐十分喜欢他，因为他最听姐姐的话。

    她有一个虽不是很喜欢，但引以为豪的大洋娃娃。她把洋娃娃放在沙发上，用一个沙发套盖着，让她睡觉。后来，她就忘了它，当时保罗正在练习从沙发扶手上往前跳，正好踩坏藏在那儿的洋娃娃的脸。安妮跑过来，大叫一声，坐在地下哭了起来，保罗吓得呆呆地站着。

    “我不知道它在那儿，安妮，我不 知道它在那儿。”他一遍又一遍地说。安妮痛哭时，他就在旁边手足无措地伤心地坐着，一直等她哭够为止。她原谅了弟弟——他还是那么不安。但一两天后，她吃了一惊。

    “我们把阿拉贝拉做个祭品吧，”他说：“我们烧了她。”

    她吃了一惊，可又有点好奇。她想看看这个男孩子会干些什么。他用砖头搭了一个祭坛，从阿拉贝拉身体里取出一些刨花，把碎蜡放到凹陷的洋娃娃脸上，浇了一点煤油，把它全部烧掉了。他用一种怀有恶意的满足看着碎蜡一滴滴地在阿拉贝拉破碎的额头上融化，像汗珠似的滴在火苗上。这个又大又笨的娃娃在火中焚烧着，他心里暗自高兴。最后，他用一根棍子在灰堆里拨了拨，捞鱼似的捞出了发黑的四肢，用石头砸烂了它们。

    “这就是阿拉贝拉夫人的火葬。”他说：“我很开心她什么也没剩下。”

    安妮内心很不安，虽然她一句话也说不出来。看来他痛恨这个洋娃娃，因为是他弄坏了它。

    所有的孩子，尤其是保罗，都非常敌视他们的父亲，站在母亲一边。莫瑞尔仍旧蛮横专制，还是一味好酒。他周期性地给全家人的生活染上不幸的色彩，有时长达数月。保罗总也忘不了，一个星期的傍晚， 他从希望乐团回来，看见母亲眼睛肿着，还发青，父亲叉着两腿站在炉前地毯上，低着头。威廉刚下班回到家，瞪着父亲。孩子们进来时，屋里一片寂静，大人们谁也没回头看一上眼。

    威廉气得嘴唇发白，拳头紧握着，用孩子式的愤怒和痛恨看着这一切，他等几个弟妹安静下来才说：

    “你这个胆小鬼，你不敢在我在的时候这样干。”

    莫瑞尔的血直往上涌，他冲着儿子转过身。威廉比他高大些，但莫瑞尔肌肉结实，而且正在气头上。

    “我不敢？”他大叫：“我不敢？毛头小伙子，你再敢多嘴，我就要用我的拳头了。哼，我会那样 做的，看着吧。”

    莫瑞尔弯着腰，穷凶极恶地举起拳头。威廉气得脸色发白。

    “你会吗？”他说，平静却又激动，“不过这是最后一次了。”

    莫瑞尔跳近了一步，弯着腰，缩回拳头要打，威廉的拳头也准备着出击。他的蓝眼睛闪过一束光，好象在 笑。他盯着父亲，只要再多说一句话，两个人就会打起来。保罗希望 他们打起来，三个孩子吓得脸色苍白，坐在沙发上。

    “你们俩都给我住手，”莫瑞尔太太用一种严厉的声音喝道：“够了，吵了一夜啦。你，”她说着，转向丈夫：“看看你的孩子！”

    莫瑞尔朝沙发上瞥了一眼。

    “看看你的孩子，你这个肮脏的小 母狗！”他冷笑道，“怎么了， 我倒想知道我对孩子们怎么啦？他们倒像你，你把你那一套鬼把戏传给了他们——是你把他们宠坏了。”

    她没有理他。大家都没有吭声，过了一会，他脱下靴子扔到。桌子下，上床睡觉去了。

    “你为什么不让我跟他干一仗？”威廉等父亲上楼后问道，“我会轻而易举地打倒他。”

    “行啦——打你自己的父亲！”她回答。

    “父亲！”威廉重复，“把他叫父亲！”

    “是的，他是——因此——”

    “可你为什么不让我收拾他？我不费什么劲就收拾他一顿。”

    “什么主意！”她喊起来，“还没到那个地步吧。”

    “不，”他说，“情况更坏。看看你自己，你为什么不让我把你受的罪还给他？”

    “因为我再也受不了这么多刺激，再别这么想了。”她索性大哭起来。

    孩子们闷闷不乐地上床了。

    威廉逐渐长大了。他们家从河川区搬到山顶的一所房子里，面对着像凸形的海扇壳那样铺开的山谷，屋前有棵巨大的白蜡树。西风从德比郡猛烈地刮来，横扫向这座房子，树被刮得呼呼响，莫瑞尔喜欢听这风声。

    “这是音乐，”他说，“它催我入睡。”

    但是保罗、亚瑟、安妮讨厌这种声音，对保罗来说这就像恶魔的叫声。他们搬到新居的第一个冬天，父亲的脾气更坏了，孩子们在大街上玩到八点才回来，然后孩子们就上床睡觉。大街靠近山谷，四周空旷漆黑。妈妈在楼下做针线活。屋子前一大片空间使孩子有一种黑夜漆漆，空旷迷惘，恐怖阴森的感觉。这种恐怖感来自那棵树上的呼啸声和对家庭不 和的烦恼。保罗常常在长时间熟睡中被楼下传来的重重的脚步声惊醒。他听见了父亲醉醺醺地回来了，大吼大叫，母亲尖声应答着，父亲的拳头砰砰地敲着桌子，声音越来越高地在咒骂。随后这一切都湮没在风刮白蜡树发出的呼啸声中。孩子们心神不定地静静地躺在床上，等着风刮过后好听父亲在干什么。他可能又在打母亲。黑暗中有一种恐惧的感觉，还有一股血腥味。他们躺在床上，提心吊胆，烦恼万分。风刮着树枝，越来越猛，就像只大竖琴的琴弦在鸣响、呼应、喷发。突然一片令人恐惧的寂静，方圆四周，楼上楼下一片寂静。怎么了？是血的寂静吧？他干了些什么？

    孩子们躺在黑暗中，静静地呼吸着。终于听到父亲扔掉靴子，穿着长袜子重重地上楼。他们静静地听着。风小了，他们听得 见水龙头里的水嘀嘀哒哒流进水壶，母亲在灌早上用的水。他们才能安下心来睡觉。

    到早晨他们又欢欢喜喜地、兴致勃勃地玩耍，就像晚上围着那根黑暗中的孤独的路灯跳舞一样快乐。不过，他们心中还是有一团挥不去的阴霾，眼睛流露出一丝黯淡，显示了他们内心生活的挫折。

    保罗恨父亲，从小他就私下里有一种强烈的宗教信仰。

    “让他别喝酒了。”他每天晚上祈祷着。“上帝啊，让我父亲死去吧。” 他常常这么祈祷。有时，下午吃完茶点，父亲还没回来，他却祈祷：“别让他死在矿井里吧。”

    有一阵全家人吃尽了苦头。孩子们放学回来吃完茶点，炉边铁架上那只大黑锅热汤沸腾，菜放在炉子上，等待莫瑞尔回家开饭。他本应该五点钟到家，可近几个月来，他收工后，天天在外面喝酒。

    冬天晚上，天气寒冷，天黑又早，莫瑞尔太太为了节省煤油在桌上放了一只铜烛台，点上一根牛油蜡烛。孩子们吃完黄油面包，准备出去玩。要是莫瑞尔还没回来，他们就不敢出去。想到他干了一天活，满身灰土，不回家洗脸吃饭，却饿着肚子在那儿喝酒，莫瑞尔太太就无法忍受。这种感觉从她身上传到孩子们身上，她不再是一个人受苦了，孩子们和她同样在受苦。

    保罗出去和别人一起玩耍。暮色中，山谷中矿井上，灯光闪闪，几位走在后面的矿工，拖着身子在黑暗的田间小路上往家走。点路灯的人过去了，后面寂无一人。黑暗笼罩了山谷，矿工早就收工了。夜色浓浓。

    保罗急急忙忙地冲进厨房。那只蜡烛还在桌上燃烧着，火焰很大。莫瑞尔太太独自坐着。铁架子上的汤锅还冒着热气，餐具还在桌上摆着，整个屋子都处在一种等待的气氛中，等着那个隔着沉沉黑夜，在好几里以外饭也不吃、衣服也不换，就知道喝酒的男人。保罗在门口站住了。

    “爸爸回 来了吗？”他问。

    “你知道他还没回来。”莫瑞尔太太回答，对这句明知故问的话有点生气。

    儿子慢慢靠近母亲，两人一起分担这份焦急。不一会儿，莫瑞尔太太上去，把土豆捞了出来。

    “土豆烧糊了，都发黑，”她说，“但这不管我的事。”

    他们偶尔不经意地聊上几句。保罗几乎有点记恨母亲也为父亲下班不回家而难受。

    “你为什么自找麻烦呢？”他说：“他不喜欢回家愿意去喝酒，你干吗不让他去呢？”

    “让他去！”莫瑞尔太太生气了，“你说让他去？”

    她意识到这个下班不回家的男人，会很快毁了自己，也毁了这个家。

    孩子们都还小，还得依靠他生活。威廉总算让她感到欣慰，如果莫瑞尔不行，还能够有个人可依靠。每一个等待的夜晚，屋里的气氛是同样的紧张。

    时间一分钟一分钟地过去了。六点钟，桌布还平铺在桌上，晚餐还是摆在那儿等着，屋里还是等待和期望的气氛。这个男孩实在受不了这种折磨，他不能去外面玩。于是，他就跑到隔壁邻居英格太太家，找她说话 去了。英格太太没有生养，她丈夫对她非常体贴，可她丈夫在一家商店工作，下班很晚。因此，每当她在门口看见这个孩子，就 说：

    “进来，保罗。”

    然后这两人就聊上一阵，孩子有时候会突然站起来说：

    “好了，我该走啦，去看看我妈妈有没有活让我干。”

    他装出很快乐的样子， 没有把惹他烦恼的事告诉他的朋友，转身跑进家门。

    这段时间，莫瑞尔一回到家总是凶狠粗暴，令人痛恨。

    “这个时间了，还知道回家！”莫瑞尔太太说。

    “ 我啥时回家关你什么事？”他回答嘴道。

    屋里的每个人都不敢吭声，觉得谁也惹不起他。他吃相粗俗，吃完后，推开所有的碗碟，趴在桌上，枕着胳膊就开始睡了。

    保罗恨父亲的这副德性。这个矿工蓬头垢面，形象很琐，灰尘沾满黑发，就那么歪着头躺在光膀子上。肉乎乎的鼻子，稀稀啦啦几乎看不出来的眉毛，被酒精烧得通红的脸颊。醉酒、疲劳再加上生闷气，他不知不觉已经睡着了。如果有人突然进来或声响稍高一点，他就会抬起头来训斥：

    “我砸扁你的头，告诉你，给我住口，听到没有？”

    他用威胁的口气吼着，通常是冲着安妮来的，这更让全家人感到厌恶。

    他在家时，总是一副事不关己的神态，家人也懒得理他。孩子们常跟母亲谈论白天发生的事，就像如果不告诉母亲的话，那事如同没有发生似的。但只要父亲一进来，一切声音都突然消失了。仿佛他是这个幸福家庭的障碍一样。他也清楚自己进来，屋子就会变得沉默，全家人都不理他，不欢迎他，但这种状态已经无法挽救了。

    他也非常渴望和孩子们高高兴兴地聊聊天，但他们不干。有时候莫瑞尔太太会说：

    “你应该去告诉你的父亲。”

    ”保罗在儿童报举办的一次竞赛中获了奖，每个人都兴高彩烈。

    “你最好在你父亲进来后就 告诉他。”莫瑞尔太太说，“你知道他总是抱怨说没有告诉他任何事。”

    “好吧。”保罗说。不过，他宁愿不要这个奖，也不愿告诉父亲。

    “爸爸，我竞赛获奖了。”他说。

    莫瑞尔转过身。

    “是吗，我的孩子？什么竞赛？”

    “哦，没什么——是关于著名妇女的。”

    “哦，你得多少奖金？”

    “一本书”

    “哦，是吗？”

    “关于鸟类的。”

    “呣——呣！”

    就这样，谈话似乎在父亲和其他任何一个家庭成员之间都是不可能的。他是个外人，他否认了他心中的上帝。

    只有他高高兴兴地干活的时候，才是唯一和一家人融和在一起的时刻。有时晚上他补鞋、修锅或修井下用的壶，他总会需要人帮忙，孩子们也乐意帮他。当他恢复了本性善良的一面，真正地干些什么的时候，孩子们也和他连在一起。

    他是个好匠人，心灵手巧，心情开朗时，总是不停地哼哼唱唱。虽然他长年累月和家人闹别扭，脾气暴躁，但干起活来热情很高。大家都会很兴奋地看到他拿着一块通红的铁块冲到洗碗间，嘴里喊着：“让开——让开！”然后，他用锤子在铁砧上锤打着这块烧红发软的东西，随心所欲地打出各种形状。或者，他全神贯注地坐在那儿焊接。孩子们就兴致勃勃地看着这些金属突然化开了，被烙铁头压进缝里去，屋子里飘满烧松香和焊锡的味儿，莫瑞尔就一声不响，一心一意地干活。他修鞋时锤子叮叮吮咪的敲打声与他的哼唱声合鸣。当他坐着给自己补下井穿的鼹鼠皮裤子时，也总是满心欢喜。他常常亲手干这活儿，他觉得这活太脏，皮子又太硬，妻子干不了。

     PAUL would be built like his mother, slightly and rather small. His fair hair went reddish, and then dark brown; his eyes were grey. He was a pale, quiet child, with eyes that seemed to listen, and witha full, dropping underlip.
　　As a rule he seemed old for his years. He was so consciousof what other people felt, particularly his mother. When shefretted he understood, and could have no peace. His soul seemedalways attentive to her.
　　As he grew older he became stronger. William was too farremoved from him to accept him as a companion. So the smaller boybelonged at first almost entirely to Annie. She was a tomboy and a"flybie-skybie", as her mother called her. But she was intenselyfond of her second brother. So Paul was towed round at the heelsof Annie, sharing her game. She raced wildly at lerky with the otheryoung wild-cats of the Bottoms. And always Paul flew beside her,living her share of the game, having as yet no part of his own. He was quiet and not noticeable. But his sister adored him. He always seemed to care for things if she wanted him to.
　　She had a big doll of which she was fearfully proud, though notso fond. So she laid the doll on the sofa, and covered it withan antimacassar, to sleep. Then she forgot it. Meantime Paulmust practise jumping off the sofa arm. So he jumped crash intothe face of the hidden doll. Annie rushed up, uttered a loud wail,and sat down to weep a dirge. Paul remained quite still.
　　"You couldn't tell it was there, mother; you couldn't tell itwas there," he repeated over and over. So long as Annie wept forthe doll he sat helpless with misery. Her grief wore itself out. She forgave her brother--he was so much upset. But a day or twoafterwards she was shocked.
　　"Let's make a sacrifice of Arabella," he said. "Let's burn her."
　　She was horrified, yet rather fascinated. She wanted to seewhat the boy would do. He made an altar of bricks, pulled some ofthe shavings out of Arabella's body, put the waxen fragments intothe hollow face, poured on a little paraffin, and set the whole thingalight. He watched with wicked satisfaction the drops of wax melt offthe broken forehead of Arabella, and drop like sweat into the flame. So long as the stupid big doll burned he rejoiced in silence. At the end be poked among the embers with a stick, fished out the armsand legs, all blackened, and smashed them under stones.
　　"That's the sacrifice of Missis Arabella," he said. "An' I'mglad there's nothing left of her."
　　Which disturbed Annie inwardly, although she could say nothing. He seemed to hate the doll so intensely, because he had broken it.
　　All the children, but particularly Paul, were peculiarlyagainst their father, along with their mother. Morel continuedto bully and to drink. He had periods, months at a time, when hemade the whole life of the family a misery. Paul never forgotcoming home from the Band of Hope one Monday evening and findinghis mother with her eye swollen and discoloured, his father standingon the hearthrug, feet astride, his head down, and William,just home from work, glaring at his father. There was a silenceas the young children entered, but none of the elders looked round.
　　William was white to the lips, and his fists were clenched. He waited until the children were silent, watching with children'srage and hate; then he said:
　　"You coward, you daren't do it when I was in."
　　But Morel's blood was up. He swung round on his son. William was bigger, but Morel was hard-muscled, and mad with fury.
　　"Dossn't I?" he shouted. "Dossn't I? Ha'e much more o'thy chelp, my young jockey, an' I'll rattle my fist about thee. Ay, an' I sholl that, dost see?"
　　Morel crouched at the knees and showed his fist in an ugly,almost beast-like fashion. William was white with rage.
　　"Will yer?" he said, quiet and intense. "It 'ud be thelast time, though."
　　Morel danced a little nearer, crouching, drawing back his fistto strike. William put his fists ready. A light came into hisblue eyes, almost like a laugh. He watched his father. Another word,and the men would have begun to fight. Paul hoped they would. The three children sat pale on the sofa.
　　"Stop it, both of you," cried Mrs. Morel in a hard voice. "We've had enough for ONE night. And YOU,"she said, turning on to her husband, "look at your children!"
　　Morel glanced at the sofa.
　　"Look at the children, you nasty little bitch!" he sneered. "Why, what have I done to the children, I should like to know? But they're like yourself; you've put 'em up to your own tricks andnasty ways--you've learned 'em in it, you 'ave."
　　She refused to answer him. No one spoke. After a while hethrew his boots under the table and went to bed.
　　"Why didn't you let me have a go at him?" said William,when his father was upstairs. "I could easily have beaten him."
　　"A nice thing--your own father," she replied.
　　"'FATHER!'" repeated William. "Call HIM MY father!"
　　"Well, he is--and so---"
　　"But why don't you let me settle him? I could do, easily."
　　"The idea!" she cried. "It hasn't come to THAT yet."
　　"No," he said, "it's come to worse. Look at yourself. WHY didn't you let me give it him?"
　　"Because I couldn't bear it, so never think of it,"she cried quickly.
　　And the children went to bed, miserably.
　　When William was growing up, the family moved from the Bottomsto a house on the brow of the hill, commanding a view of the valley,which spread out like a convex cockle-shell, or a clamp-shell, before it. In front of the house was a huge old ash-tree. The west wind,sweeping from Derbyshire, caught the houses with full force,and the tree shrieked again. Morel liked it.
　　"It's music," he said. "It sends me to sleep."
　　But Paul and Arthur and Annie hated it. To Paul it becamealmost a demoniacal noise. The winter of their first yearin the new house their father was very bad. The children playedin the street, on the brim of the wide, dark valley, until eighto'clock. Then they went to bed. Their mother sat sewing below. Having such a great space in front of the house gave the childrena feeling of night, of vastness, and of terror. This terror camein from the shrieking of the tree and the anguish of the home discord. Often Paul would wake up, after he had been asleep a long time,aware of thuds downstairs. Instantly he was wide awake. Then heheard the booming shouts of his father, come home nearly drunk, then thesharp replies of his mother, then the bang, bang of his father's fist onthe table, and the nasty snarling shout as the man's voice got higher. And then the whole was drowned in a piercing medley of shrieksand cries from the great, wind-swept ash-tree. The childrenlay silent in suspense, waiting for a lull in the wind to hearwhat their father was doing. He might hit their mother again. There was a feeling of horror, a kind of bristling in the darkness,and a sense of blood. They lay with their hearts in the grip of anintense anguish. The wind came through the tree fiercer and fiercer. All the chords of the great harp hummed, whistled, and shrieked. And then came the horror of the sudden silence, silence everywhere,outside and downstairs. What was it? Was it a silence of blood? What had he done?
　　The children lay and breathed the darkness. And then, at last,they heard their father throw down his boots and tramp upstairsin his stockinged feet. Still they listened. Then at last,if the wind allowed, they heard the water of the tap drumming intothe kettle, which their mother was filling for morning, and theycould go to sleep in peace.
　　So they were happy in the morning--happy, very happy playing,dancing at night round the lonely lamp-post in the midst ofthe darkness. But they had one tight place of anxiety in their hearts,one darkness in their eyes, which showed all their lives.
　　Paul hated his father. As a boy he had a fervent private religion.
　　"Make him stop drinking," he prayed every night. "Lord, let myfather die," he prayed very often. "Let him not be killed at pit,"he prayed when, after tea, the father did not come home from work.
　　That was another time when the family suffered intensely. The children came from school and had their teas. On the hobthe big black saucepan was simmering, the stew-jar was in the oven,ready for Morel's dinner. He was expected at five o'clock. But formonths he would stop and drink every night on his way from work.
　　In the winter nights, when it was cold, and grew dark early,Mrs. Morel would put a brass candlestick on the table, light atallow candle to save the gas. The children finished theirbread-and-butter, or dripping, and were ready to go out to play. But if Morel had not come they faltered. The sense of his sittingin all his pit-dirt, drinking, after a long day's work, not cominghome and eating and washing, but sitting, getting drunk, on an empty stomach,made Mrs. Morel unable to bear herself. From her the feeling wastransmitted to the other children. She never suffered alone any more: the children suffered with her.
　　Paul went out to play with the rest. Down in the great troughof twilight, tiny clusters of lights burned where the pits were. A few last colliers straggled up the dim field path. The lamplightercame along. No more colliers came. Darkness shut down over the valley;work was done. It was night.
　　Then Paul ran anxiously into the kitchen. The one candle stillburned on the table, the big fire glowed red. Mrs. Morel sat alone. On the hob the saucepan steamed; the dinner-plate lay waitingon the table. All the room was full of the sense of waiting,waiting for the man who was sitting in his pit-dirt, dinnerless,some mile away from home, across the darkness, drinking himself drunk. Paul stood in the doorway.
　　"Has my dad come?" he asked.
　　"You can see he hasn't," said Mrs. Morel, cross with thefutility of the question.
　　Then the boy dawdled about near his mother. They sharedthe same anxiety. Presently Mrs. Morel went out and strainedthe potatoes.
　　"They're ruined and black," she said; "but what do I care?"
　　Not many words were spoken. Paul almost hated his motherfor suffering because his father did not come home from work.
　　"What do you bother yourself for?" he said. "If he wantsto stop and get drunk, why don't you let him?"
　　"Let him!" flashed Mrs. Morel. "You may well say 'let him'."
　　She knew that the man who stops on the way home from work is on aquick way to ruining himself and his home. The children were yet young,and depended on the breadwinner. William gave her the sense of relief,providing her at last with someone to turn to if Morel failed. Butthe tense atmosphere of the room on these waiting evenings was the same.
　　The minutes ticked away. At six o'clock still the cloth layon the table, still the dinner stood waiting, still the same senseof anxiety and expectation in the room. The boy could not stand itany longer. He could not go out and play. So he ran in to Mrs. Inger,next door but one, for her to talk to him. She had no children. Her husband was good to her but was in a shop, and came home late.So, when she saw the lad at the door, she called:
　　"Come in, Paul."
　　The two sat talking for some time, when suddenlythe boy rose, saying:
　　"Well, I'll be going and seeing if my mother wants an errand doing."
　　He pretended to be perfectly cheerful, and did not tell hisfriend what ailed him. Then he ran indoors.
　　Morel at these times came in churlish and hateful.
　　"This is a nice time to come home," said Mrs. Morel.
　　"Wha's it matter to yo' what time I come whoam?" he shouted.
　　And everybody in the house was still, because he was dangerous. He ate his food in the most brutal manner possible, and, when hehad done, pushed all the pots in a heap away from him, to lay hisarms on the table. Then he went to sleep.
　　Paul hated his father so. The collier's small, mean head,with its black hair slightly soiled with grey, lay on the bare arms,and the face, dirty and inflamed, with a fleshy nose and thin,paltry brows, was turned sideways, asleep with beer and wearinessand nasty temper. If anyone entered suddenly, or a noise were made,the man looked up and shouted:
　　"I'll lay my fist about thy y'ead, I'm tellin' thee, if thadoesna stop that clatter! Dost hear?"
　　And the two last words, shouted in a bullying fashion,usually at Annie, made the family writhe with hate of the man.
　　He was shut out from all family affairs. No one told him anything. The children, alone with their mother, told her all about theday's happenings, everything. Nothing had really taken place inthem until it was told to their mother. But as soon as the fathercame in, everything stopped. He was like the scotch in the smooth,happy machinery of the home. And he was always aware of this fallof silence on his entry, the shutting off of life, the unwelcome. But now it was gone too far to alter.
　　He would dearly have liked the children to talk to him,but they could not. Sometimes Mrs. Morel would say:
　　"You ought to tell your father."
　　Paul won a prize in a competition in a child's paper. Everybody was highly jubilant.
　　"Now you'd better tell your father when be comes in,"said Mrs. Morel. "You know how be carries on and says he's nevertold anything."
　　"All right," said Paul. But he would almost rather haveforfeited the prize than have to tell his father.
　　"I've won a prize in a competition, dad," he said. Morel turned round to him.
　　"Have you, my boy? What sort of a competition?"
　　"Oh, nothing--about famous women."
　　"And how much is the prize, then, as you've got?"
　　"It's a book."
　　"Oh, indeed! "
　　"About birds."
　　"Hm--hm! "
　　And that was all. Conversation was impossible between thefather and any other member of the family. He was an outsider. He had denied the God in him.
　　The only times when he entered again into the life of his own peoplewas when he worked, and was happy at work. Sometimes, in the evening,he cobbled the boots or mended the kettle or his pit-bottle. Thenhe always wanted several attendants, and the children enjoyed it. They united with him in the work, in the actual doing of something,when he was his real self again.
　　He was a good workman, dexterous, and one who, when he was in agood humour, always sang. He had whole periods, months, almost years,of friction and nasty temper. Then sometimes he was jolly again. It was nice to see him run with a piece of red-hot iron intothe scullery, crying:
　　"Out of my road--out of my road!"
　　Then he hammered the soft, red-glowing stuff on his iron goose,and made the shape he wanted. Or he sat absorbed for a moment,soldering. Then the children watched with joy as the metal sanksuddenly molten, and was shoved about against the nose of thesoldering-iron, while the room was full of a scent of burnt resinand hot tin, and Morel was silent and intent for a minute. He alwayssang when he mended boots because of the jolly sound of hammering. And he was rather happy when he sat putting great patches on hismoleskin pit trousers, which he would often do, considering themtoo dirty, and the stuff too hard, for his wife to mend.