“Oh yes, sir, he is at home,” said Minnie; “this weather don’t suit his asthma out of doors. Joe, call your grandfather!”
The little fellow, who was holding her apron, gave such a lusty shout, that the sound of it made him bashful, and he buried his face in her skirts, to her great admiration. I heard a heavy puffing and blowing coming towards us, and soon Mr. Omer, shorter-winded than of yore, but not much older-looking, stood before me.
“Servant, sir,” said Mr. Omer. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“You can shake hands with me, Mr. Omer, if you please,” said I, putting out my own. “You were very good-natured to me once, when I am afraid I didn’t show that I thought so.”
“Was I though?” returned the old man. “I’m glad to hear it, but I don’t remember when. Are you sure it was me?”
“Quite.”
“I think my memory has got as short as my breath,” said Mr. Omer, looking at me and shaking his head; “for I don’t remember you.”
“Don’t you remember your coming to the coach to meet me, and my having breakfast here, and our riding out to Blunderstone together: you, and I, and Mrs. Joram, and Mr. Joram too—who wasn’t her husband then?”
“Why, Lord bless my soul!” exclaimed Mr. Omer, after being thrown by his surprise into a fit of coughing, “you don’t say so! Minnie, my dear, you recollect? Dear me, yes—the party was a lady, I think?”
“My mother,” I rejoined.