“Ask him to come here.”
An assenting sniff was Mukle’s only reply, and, turning on her heel in a military fashion,—the late Mr. Mukle had been a soldier,—she strode back to the house like a grenadier.
Meanwhile, Mr. Carriston, having risen to his feet, was dusting his knees, and, while thus engaged, saw Maurice coming towards him. Assuredly the master of the Grange was a fine specimen of humanity, for he was over six feet in height, and, being arrayed in shooting-coat, knickerbockers, and deerstalker’s hat, looked a remarkably striking figure. He would have looked better had his face borne a smile, but, as it was, he came solemnly forward and took the rector’s outstretched hand as if he was chief mourner at a funeral.
“You shouldn’t be a country gentleman, Maurice,” said Mr. Carriston, after the usual greetings had been exchanged. “The occupation of a monk would suit you better.”
Maurice said nothing, but sighed wearily.
“Come now, my dear lad; if you sigh in that fashion, I shall suspect you of being a lover, in spite of your asseveration to the contrary.”
“A man can’t marry his aunt, and as Crispin wants to marry Eunice, no one is left for me but my honorable relation.”
“Try Mukle.”
“Too much of a grenadier.”
“I think you are the same—in height,” said the Rector, looking approvingly at his tall friend. “If old Father Fritz had seen the pair of ye, I think he would have insisted upon the marriage, so as to breed a race of giants. But, dear, dear! what nonsense we talk! Come and sit down, my lad. Will you smoke?”