“Joseline’s daughter,” he was saying to himself. “Joseline’s daughter.”
Mr. Usher, instinctively aware that his companion was in a highly strung and nervous condition, like the wise little man he was, held his peace; yes, even when they came within full view of the slated house, with its commonplace white face half hidden by a veil of crimson roses.
“There she is!” he exclaimed abruptly.
Yes; standing at the farthest side from them, attended by a terrier, feeding a multitude of bold and presumptuous poultry, stood Mary herself.
“See, now! that’s all I have for ye,” she declared, as she tossed the last crumbs away, and a race ensued between a strong-limbed cochin and a dissipated-looking hen turkey. The bang of the gate caused her to turn her head, and she beheld, to her surprise, the “little grey man,” as she called him, and a fine, tall gentleman; and little did she guess how deeply he was agitated.
“Here I am again, Mary!” announced Mr. Usher, with an off-hand air. “I thought, as we were just passing, we would look in and bid you the time of the day!”
“And kindly welcome.” As she spoke she glanced up at the stranger; he was awfully white, and his eyes, as he looked into hers, seemed to pierce down to her very heart. “What ailed the poor gentleman?” she wondered; “was he taken bad?” Yes; he suddenly sat down on a bench outside the door, and, in a husky tone, asked for a “glass of water.”
He really seemed faint and come over, and Mary hastened into the house, and presently returned with a brimming tin porringer.
As he sipped it, the hand which held the porringer shook visibly, and Mr. Usher, in order to make a diversion, inquired—