She walked homeward so prim, so old, so withered, that ninety-nine in a hundred would have laughed to know that she was living in the heart of a love-story, and that story her own. But we rarely grow old enough to forget our own griefs, howsoever cold the frost of age may make us to the griefs of others.
CHAPTER VIII.
The young Sennacherib, swaggering gayly from his unnatural parent's door, was aware of something as nearly approaching a flutter as not often disturbed the picturesque dulness of the village main street. By some unusual chance there were half a dozen people in the road, and not only did these turn to stare at him, but at least half a dozen others peered at him from behind the curtains of cottage interiors, or boldly flattened their noses against the bulbous little panes of glass in the diamonded windows.
“Theer's a look of summat stirrin' i' the place, gaffer,” said Snac to one ancient of the village.
“Why, yis, Mr. Eld, theer is that sort of a air about the pläas to-day,” the old fellow answered, with a fine unconsciousness. “But then theer mostly is a bit of a crowd round our town pump.”
The crowd about the town pump consisted of one slatternly small girl and a puppy.
“Can't a chap call on his feyther 'ithout the Midland counties turnin' out to look at him?” Snac asked, smilingly.
“Yis,” returned the ancient, who was conveniently deaf on a sudden. “Theer's been no such fine ripenin' weather for the wheat sence I wur a lad.”
Snac gave the riding-whip he carried a burlesque threatening flourish, and the old boy grinned humorously.