Everything in this man's face was on a grand scale: there was not a mean feature in it. His lips were full and powerful, his nose was large and of a good shape, his great grey eyes had in them a light and depth which were not easily fathomed, and but for his forehead, which hung over his eyebrows like a precipice, he would have been a well-looking man. But this forehead was of so monstrous a bulk that it engrossed the attention of the observer, and except to those with keen and penetrating insight, destroyed all harmony of feature in the face of the man. His flesh was not over clean; his hands were as hard as horn; he had a week's bristles on his chin, and an old red nightcap on his head.
Before the children had finished their slices of bread-and-dripping, Seth, bending forward, took Sally's boots from her feet, and examined them. They were in sad need of repair, and without a word, Seth began to patch and hammer away at them. Sally's eyes glistened with grateful pleasure.
"And now about that dream of yours, Sally," said Seth Dumbrick, as Sally, after partaking of the last mouthful of bread, wiped her lips with her hand. "Did I have a gold-laced hat and silk stockings on?"
"Oh, no," replied Sally, screwing up her lips, "only you was setting on a stool, mending shoes--as you're doing now."
"Well, that's not much of a dream, Sally. You could dream that dream over again this minute, with your eyes wide open."
"No, I couldn't--no, I couldn't!" protested Sally, with a vigorous shake of her head. "You don't know!"
"Well, go on; I was sitting here mending shoes----"
"No, no," interrupted Sally, "you wasn't sitting here."
"Where, then."
"There!" said Sally, pointing with her finger upwards to the sky.