The dogs, apparently understanding, sat round with their eye on Joseph.
"If your godless parent was to see these poor creatures to work, I can tell you what he'd say, Melinda. He'd say thicky spaniel was like me—knows her job very well indeed and prefers to see the younger dogs doing it. And why not?"
"No use growing old if you don't grow artful," admitted Melinda.
"Of course it ban't—here's the girl. What's the matter now, Soosie? The rabbits? I be just going after 'em."
But Miss Stockman, Joseph's only child, had not come about the rabbits. She was a woman resembling her father in no respect. Her hair was black, lustreless and rough, her brown face disfigured by a "port wine" stain that descended from her forehead to her cheek. Her expression was anxious and careworn, and though large-boned and powerfully made, she was thin. She had brown, dog-like eyes, a mouth with sad lips and a pleading voice, which seemed to have the same querulous note as the hawks that so often hung in air above her home.
"Mr. Maynard's box have come, father," she said. "Be he to live in the house, or to go in the tallet over the stables? Both rooms are sweet and ready for 'em."
"Trust you for that, Soosie," declared Melinda.
"The horseman goes over the stables, as being the right and proper place for him," said Mr. Stockman. "And if there was a dwelling room over the cows, the cowman would go there. But there is not, so he'll come in the house."
"Right then," answered his daughter. "Mr. Maynard comes in the house; Mr. Palk goes over the hosses."
Susan disappeared and Mrs. Honeysett prepared to depart.