“And you're not a farmer nor a judge of cattle. How are you to pass your time, I 'd like to know?”
“If there were books, or if there were people to talk to—”
“Mrs. Dudgeon's deaf,—she's been deaf these twenty years; but she has a daughter. Is Lizzy deaf?”
“Of course she's not,” rejoined my aunt, tartly.
“Well, she'd talk to you; and Dan would talk. Not much, I believe, though; he a'n't a great fellow for talk.”
“They 're something silent all of them, but Lizzy is a nice girl and very pretty,—at least she was when I saw her here two years ago.”
“At all events, they are distant connections of your mother's; and as you are determined to live on your relations, I think you ought to give them a turn.”
“There is some justice in that, sir,” said I, determined now to resent no rudeness, nor show offence at any coarseness, however great it might be.
“Well, then, I 'll write to-morrow, and say you 'll follow my letter, and be with them soon after they receive it. I believe it's a lonely sort of place enough,—Dan calls it next door to Greenland; but there's good air, and plenty of it.”
We talked for some time longer over the family whose guest I was to be, and I went off to bed, determined to see out this new act of my life's drama before I whistled for the curtain to drop.