LITMIR.BIZ

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continued the old lady, who was off now on her hobby. “Why, it was like yesterday that the Lloyds got Mrs Trevor to send for their sister from some place with a dreadful name; and she did, and I believe it was her death, when she might have had a good Cornish nurse; and the next thing we heard was that there was a son, and the very next week there was a grand funeral, and the poor squire was never the same man again. Ah! it was an artful trick that – sending for the nurse because Mrs Lloyd wanted her too; and young Humphrey Lloyd was born the same week. Ay, they were strange times. It seemed directly after that we had the news about the squire, who got reckless-like, always out in his yacht, a poor matchwood sort of a thing, not like our boots, and it was blown on the Longships one night, and there wasn’t even a body came ashore.”

      “Rather a sad family history,” said Mr Mervyn.

      “Ay, sad enough,” said the woman; “and now the young squire’s coming home at last from sea, but he’ll never be such a man as his father.”

      “Think not?” said Mr Mervyn, musing.

      “Sure not,” said the old woman. “Why, he was petted and spoiled by those Lloyds while he was a boy, and a pretty limb he was. Him and that young Lloyd was always in some mischief. Pretty pranks they played me. I’ve been out with the stick to ’em scores of times; but he was generous – I will say that – and many’s the conger and bass he’s brought me here, proud of ’em as could be, because he caught them himself.”

      “Well, Mrs Trelyan, we must say good morning,” said Tiny, rising and taking the old lady’s hand. “Is there anything you would like – anything we can bring you?”

      “No, child, no,” said the old lady; “I don’t want anything. If you’d any good tea, I’d use a pinch; but I’m not asking for it, mind that.”

      “Where’s your snuff-box, granny?” said Mr Mervyn, bringing out a small canister from his pocket.

      “Oh, it’s here,” said the old lady, fishing out and opening her box to show it was quite empty. “I don’t know that I want any, though.”

      “Try that,” said Mr Mervyn, filling it full; and the old lady took a pinch. “That’s not bad, is it?”

      “N-n-no, it’s not bad,” said the old lady, “but I’ve had better.”

      “No doubt,” said Mr Mervyn, smiling.

      “By the way, Mrs Trelyan, how old are you?”

      “Ninety next month,” said the old lady; “and – dear, dear, what a bother visitors are. Here’s somebody else coming.”

      For at that moment there was a firm step heard without, and some one stooped and entered the doorway, hardly seeing the group on his left in the gloomy room.

      “Is Mrs Trelyan at home?” he said; and Tiny Rea laid her hand upon her sisters arm.

      “Yes, young man,” said the old lady, shading her eyes, and gazing at the strongly-built figure before her. “I’m Mrs Trelyan, and what may you want?”

      “To see how you are, granny. I’m Richard Trevor.”

      “And – and – ” cried the old woman, letting fall her net as she rose slowly and laid her hand upon his arm; “and only a minute ago I was talking about you, and declaring you’d never be such a man as your father. My dear boy, how you have grown.”

      “One does grow in twelve years, granny,” said the young man. “Well, I’m glad to see you alive and hearty.”

      “Thank you, my boy,” said the old lady; and then turning and pointing to the wall, “Look!” she said, “that’s the very stick that I took away from you one day for teasing my hens. You were a bad boy. You know you were.”

      “I suppose I was,” said the young man, smiling. “But I beg pardon; you have company, granny.”

      “Oh, that’s only Mr Mervyn, my dear, and he’s going; and those are only the two girls from Tolcarne. I let them come and see me sometimes, but they’re going now.”

      “Mr Mervyn,” said the young man, holding out his hand, which was taken in a strong grip, “I am glad to meet so near a neighbour; perhaps you will introduce me to the ladies?”

      “That I will,” said Mr Mervyn, heartily. “Mr Trevor!”

      “It’s Squire Trevor now, Mr Mervyn,” said the old lady, with some show of impatience.

      “I beg pardon,” said Mr Mervyn, smiling. “Squire Trevor, your very near neighbours, Miss Rea, Miss Finetta Rea, of Tolcarne.”

      “Ladies whom I have had the pleasure of meeting before,” said Trevor, with a smile.

      And then, in a confusion of bows, the two girls made their retreat, followed by Mr Mervyn.

      “Oh, Fin, how strange!” exclaimed Tiny; “it’s the gentleman who struck that man at the race.”

      “Yes,” exclaimed Fin; “and that horrid little creature’s sure to be close behind.”

      Sam Jenkles Prepares for an Expedition

      “There you are, Ratty,” said Sam Jenkles, sticking a small yellow sunflower in each of his horse’s blinkers, before mounting to his perch and driving out of the yard. “Now you look ’andsome. Only recklect ’andsome is as ’andsome does; so just putt your right leg fust for once in a way.”

      He walked round the horse, giving it a smooth here and a smooth there with his worn-out glove, and patting its neck, before walking back, and beginning to button-up for the day.

      “Blest if ever I see such a tail in my life as he’s got,” he muttered. “Wonder what a hartificial one ’ud cost. It aint no kind o’ use to comb it, ’thout you want to comb it all out and leave no tail at all I wouldn’t care if it warn’t so ragged.”

      It certainly was a melancholy-looking tail, but only in keeping with the rest of the horse’s personal appearance, which was of the most dejected – dispirited. If it had only been black, the steed would have been the beau ideal beast for a workhouse hearse; as he was of a dingy brown, he was relegated to a cab.

      “What’s the matter, Sam?” said a cleaner, coming up – a man with a stable pail of water in one hand, a spoke-brush in the other, and a general exemplification of how, by degrees, Nature will make square people fit into round holes, and the reverse; for, by the constant carriage of stable pails, the man’s knees had gone in, and out of the perpendicular, so as to allow for the vessels’ swing.

      “What’s the matter, Buddy? Why, everythink. Look at that there ’oss – look at his tail.”

      “Well, he aint ’andsome, suttunly,” said the helper.

      “’Andsome!” exclaimed Sam; “no, nor he aint anythink else. He won’t go, nor he won’t stop. If you wants him to ’old ’is ’ead up, he ’angs it down; and if you wants him to ’old it down, he shoves it up in the air, and goes shambling along like a sick camel. He’s all rules of contrairy.”

      “’Oppin’ about like a little canary,” chimed in the helper.

      “’Oppin’ about!” said Sam, in a tone of disgust. “I should just like to see him, if on’y for once in a way. I tell yer what it is, Buddy, I believe sometimes all he does is to lift his legs up, one at a time, an’ lean up agin his collar. Natur’ does the rest.”

      “Werry likely,” said Buddy; “but you can’t expect everything in a cab ’oss.”

      “Heverythink?” said Sam. “I don’t expect everythink; I only want some-think; and all you’ve got there,” he continued, pointing with one thumb over his shoulder at the unfortunate Ratty, “is so much walking cats’-meat.”

      “Yes, he aint ’andsome, suttunly,” said Buddy again, screwing up one side of his face. “But why don’t you smooth him over? Try kindness, and give the whip a ’ollerday.”

      “Kindness – whip – ’ollerday!

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