“Oy, oy! t’ letter Oi heerd t’ mawther talk aboot. Coom along wi’ Oi, maister. This be the way.”
Leaving the old carriage standing before the church door, the driver led the way through the long grass, and in and out among the tombstones, taking care not to step upon the graves, and so reached another gate opening upon a sequestered lane and flanked by two buildings, one of which was the sexton’s cottage, built of stone, with a steep roof, tall chimneys and latticed windows, and, like the church, so moss-grown and ivy-covered that only its doors and windows escaped the veil.
A tall, venerable, white-haired man, with a long white beard, sat in the door, smoking, and apparently meditating.
“Grandfeyther,” said Jonah Kirby, addressing this patriarch, “here be a gentleman from foreign pairts a bringing of a letter and news from Uncle John.”
“Eh! eh! then, what be ye talking aboot, lad?” inquired the old man, rising with difficulty, balancing himself, and bowing to the strangers.
Jonah Kirby repeated his introduction.
“Eh! My service to you, gentlefolks. A letter fra m’ lad in ’Merica! Eh! Laird bless us!—a letter fra m’ lad, quotha?”
“Yes, Mr. Kirby, my little girl here has brought you a letter from your son, John Kirby, who is a baggage master on a prosperous railroad in the United States. She made his acquaintance on the train. Here, Wynnette, my dear, give the old man his letter and parcel.”
The young girl handed both.
“Thanky, me leddy! Thanky koindly!” said the patriarch, sinking back in his armchair; for between age, weakness and emotion he was no longer able to stand.