“Why, what’s become of me? Isn’t there a room here for you and for him; and a table for you too? Only, my good mother, since we are talking of domestic affairs,” added the blacksmith, imparting increased tenderness to his tone, that he might not shock his mother, “when he and Gabriel come home, you won’t want to have any more masses said, and tapers burned for them, will you? Well, that saving will enable father to have tobacco to smoke, and his bottle of wine every day. Then, on Sundays, we will take a nice dinner at the eating-house.”
A knocking at the door disturbed Agricola.
“Come in,” said he. Instead of doing so, some one half-opened the door, and, thrusting in an arm of a pea-green color, made signs to the blacksmith.
[Original]
“‘Tis old Loriot, the pattern of dyers,” said Agricola; “come in, Daddy, no ceremony.”
“Impossible, my lad; I am dripping with dye from head to foot; I should cover missus’s floor with green.”
“So much the better. It will remind me of the fields I like so much.”
“Without joking, Agricola, I must speak to you immediately.”
“About the spy, eh? Oh, be easy; what’s he to us?”