"It's William Marydrew," said Jane. "He was often up over at Bullstone when Grandfather Catt lived. A proper old figure of fun."
They saluted Billy, who walked with a stick and smoked a clay pipe. He was bent and travelled slowly. He had snow-white whiskers, which met under his chin, and a red, crinkled face with a cheerful expression. His eyes were small and he blinked and saw badly, for they were weak. Jane told him that she was married, and he said he had heard about it, but other matters had caused the fact to slip his memory.
"May you be a happy pair and find life go very suent," he hoped.
Billy seemed, however, not so cheerful as of old.
"I trust you find yourself well," said Jane.
"Very well indeed, my dear," he answered. "If I be allowed to go my own pace and eat my own food, I don't feel a pang. Threatened blindness be my only cloud so far as the body is concerned. By ninety I shall be so blind as a mole. And yet what odds? Even so, I shall have had the use of my eyes for a quarter of a century more than most folk."
"You'm a thought downcast, Mr. Marydrew," ventured Jane. "I always remember you as a great laughter-maker in my grandfather's time."
"So I was then, and so I will be again," he promised. "I'm a funny old blid—for why? I never look back and be naturally of a hopeful turn of mind. But just now, owing to a very fatal accident, I'm under the weather for the moment."
"If there's anything in the world I could do," said Jeremy.
"No, my dear, there's nothing you can do. You see I've just closed the eyes of my only daughter. Mercy Marydrew's gone to her reward."