Mrs. Williamson was the `` saint in spectacles and calico '' which Larry West had termed her . Eric liked her greatly . She was a slight , gray-haired woman , with a thin , sweet , high-bred face , deeply lined with the records of outlived pain . She talked little as a rule ; but , in the pungent country phrase she never spoke but she said something . The one thing that constantly puzzled Eric was how such a woman ever came to marry Robert Williamson . She smiled in a motherly fashion at Eric , as he hung his hat on the white-washed wall and took his place at the table . Outside of the window behind him was a birch grove which , in the westering sun , was a tremulous splendour , with a sea of undergrowth wavered into golden billows by every passing wind . Old Robert Williamson sat opposite him , on a bench . He was a small , lean old man , half lost in loose clothes that seemed far too large for him . When he spoke his voice was as thin and squeaky as he appeared to be himself . The other end of the bench was occupied by Timothy , sleek and complacent , with a snowy breast and white paws . After old Robert had taken a mouthful of anything he gave a piece to Timothy , who ate it daintily and purred resonant gratitude . `` You see we 're busy waiting for you , Master , '' said old Robert . `` You 're late this evening . Keep any of the youngsters in ? That 's a foolish way of punishing them , as hard on yourself as on them . One teacher we had four years ago used to lock them in and go home . Then he 'd go back in an hour and let them out -- if they were there . They were n't always . Tom Ferguson kicked the panels out of the old door once and got out that way .
We put a new door XXXXX double plank in that they could n't kick out . ''
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