This cleanly old woman took snuff, it is true—of the light yellow pungent species—for she was a victim to headaches, the natural result of incessant twankay or souchong, but she took it without permitting a grain to fall upon her Bible or her dress.
When Mr. and Mrs. Ashbrook entered her unpretending dwelling, she was sitting like “Simon, the Cellarer,” in her high-backed chair, enjoying the faint warmth and rosy light of the fire, and bestowing a glance every now and then upon a baby which reposed in a cradle by her side.
Patty saw this cradle as soon as she opened the door, for it was a sight which was pretty sure to attract the attention of any young mother.
She gazed upon the tiny creature with evident interest.
It was a sweet little infant about six months old. Its hair was already dark, and promised to be black as the raven’s wing; silky eyelids fringed the pearl-white lids, and its skin was as delicate and soft as satin.
“I say, missus,” cried Ashbrook, “what’s the meaning of this? What have you been up to? Going to turn baby farmer, eh?”
The old woman laughed good-humouredly.
“No, Master Ashbrook; thanks to his lordship I don’t need anything of that sort. The little thing belongs to one of my neighbours. They often bring their children here for me to take care of when they go to work or to market, or anywhere for a day. But won’t you take a seat, sir, and you as well, madam?”
“You are very good, I am sure, to take charge of your neighbour’s children. What a sweet little thing it is!” observed Mrs. Ashbrook.
“A very nice child, and so good-tempered, too—don’t give any trouble,” said Mrs. Bagley, rising and wiping with her apron two chairs, which she placed at the disposal of the visitors.