“No, he was lally-gaggin’ around here for a while.”
“How is old Hiram?” The question was affectionate.
Betsy pushed an upturned rug under a table-leg.
“Oh, about as usual, I guess. Gets more like himself every year, same as we all do.”
“Well, he couldn’t do better. He’s a good sort.” Irving smiled at some memory. “I must have made that man’s life a burden. What a lot of patience he had! But when the end was reached, I can feel that hand of his come down on me, big as a ham, and toss me away as if I’d been a cunner he was throwing back. Mrs. Salter, too. Talk about salt of the earth! I suppose that must have been a stock Fairport pun during her life. Many a time she begged me off. The gentle Annie! I should think so. Let’s see. How long has she been gone?”
“Five years.”
“And the captain has never taken notice since, has he?”
“Don’t ask me,” was the curt response; and a table was whisked completely around with a celerity which must have given it vertigo.
“Betsy! Betsy!” It was a cautious call which came quietly from the invisible.
Betsy straightened herself and moved toward it, and the silent moment was followed by the swift entrance of Mrs. Bruce.