The old lady still regarded them both fixedly, her pipe still between her lips.
“What’s yore name, Ma’am?” said she after a time. “Ye’re mighty purty, ‘pears like to me.”
“They call me Polly Pendleton, Grandma,” said the young woman. “I don’t know your name—we don’t know anything at all. What you say to us is terrible—it’s awful.”
“Yes, it’s right hard,” admitted Granny Joslin. “Say, Ma’am, tell me, did ye ever meet a young man from these parts? An’ tell me, furthermore, air ye French and Irish mixed?”
Polly Pendleton suddenly flushed to her eyes. “What makes you ask that?” she demanded.
“I reckoned ye was,” replied the old dame quietly. “Ye jest about come under a tall man’s arm, too, don’t ye? Ye’re purty as a pictur. I don’t know as I ever seed a purtier gal than ye, lessen it’s the furrin woman over thar at Granny Williams’ house right now. I’m French and Irish myself, too, Ma’am.”
“How odd! I say, Grandma, what’s your name—since we’re getting acquainted now?”
“My name’s Joslin, Ma’am. That thar young man I meant was Davy, my grandson, the same thet built the school buildin’ up yander on the hill—biggest building ever was in these mountings. Now, I’ve heerd Davy talk of ye afore now, Ma’am. But I reckon ye’ve come in here fer another sort of man than Davy.”